


On the Run

by relic_amaranth



Series: On the Run [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Eventual Romance, F/M, Female Reader, Friendship, Idiots in Love, On the Run, Protective Avengers, Protective Bucky Barnes, Reader-Insert, Rescue, Romance, Sam Wilson is a Gift, Sass, Snark, Strong Language, Team as Family, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-03-20 19:01:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 52,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13724025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/relic_amaranth/pseuds/relic_amaranth
Summary: Your life is fairly normal, up until Captain America shows up on your doorstep asking for help for something nobody should know about. Some things you do know are:1) James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes is an asshole,2) This is all his fault, and3) You're going to punch him in the face.If you survive.





	1. “An Explosive Introduction” or “It’s the Thought That Counts”

**Author's Note:**

> Note 1: Post a slightly alternate CA: TWS in which SHEILD was not *as* full of Hydra and so didn’t completely end, but it was nearly crippled by the infiltration. Bucky is a functioning Avenger. Both these points will come up more in the story but I wanted to put that out as a base understanding. Tags will be added as more characters/events play out but I will make sure to add the warnings to the chapters themselves as well. Violence/strong language warnings apply to the story as a whole.

It’s a warm, calm, relatively quiet Saturday, for all you can see. The little hellions in your complex are playing elsewhere, judging by the distant shouting and yelling, and even the adults are on their best behavior, as the units are silent and still. You’re fresh from the laundromat and sweating a little from the combined heat and exertion, and you put your load down. You fan yourself with your hand. All your windows are open to air the place out and someone’s chimes ring out as the smallest breeze blows through. You sigh and scoot the basket over to the couch with your foot.

It could be heavier, so you don’t complain, but to be honest (not that you’d admit it out loud) you sort of miss the extra weight another person brings. But he’s moved on to bigger and better things, probably never even thinks of you, so you quash those thoughts and get back to work, folding and sorting clothes and trying to enjoy the strangely peaceful weekend.

That’s when someone knocks on your door. Fucking typical.

You debate pretending you’re not home when they knock again. Maybe you can ignore them. That’s your right too, right? Still, they’re persistent and you decide ‘what the hell’. You go to check the peephole out of habit. It’s a piece of crap as most things in this inexpensive hellhole are so all you can tell is the person on the other side is big and bulky. That’s not automatically a bad thing– you still get a little hopeful, sometimes, that he’ll come back, even just to visit. So sue you.

Hopeless, maybe, but you aren’t _that_ stupid, so you make sure the chain is in place when you open the door. The person you find, however, makes your jaw drop and your mouth go dry, both at once. Earnest blue eyes stare right at you and he says, “Hi, ma’am, my name is Steve Rogers and I–”

You slam the door shut and press your back against it. Your heart is racing and not in a good way. Captain America is at your door. Why the fuck is Captain America at your door? You open it again to peek at him and you find another reason to freak out, slamming the door on him again before he can open his mouth, and pressing your back against it desperately. Why the fuck is Captain America at your door _dressed up in his suit_ and _holding the fucking shield_?

You swallow hard and a feeling of dread overcomes you. He knocks hard, rattling the cheap wood and proving that you’re not living out a porn parody fantasy when he says _your name_ followed by the words, “I’m sorry but this is an urgent situation and I really need to talk to you.”

If you ignore him long enough he’ll go away, right?

Nope. Big, Blonde and Righteous lets out a sigh you can hear, _turns the handle_ right out of your grip, and pushes open the door. You turn and brace yourself against it, trying to preserve the dinky little chain that doesn’t have a chance in hell at surviving this encounter if Captain America doesn’t want it to. He stares at you again and you almost quail under it. Can someone telepathically make you feel like a bad person? Maybe that’s his real super power. You scramble for an excuse, anything, and, of course, the words jumble up in your brain. “Uh– uh– no hablo español!”

He actually lightens up on pushing the door and squints at you. “Did you just say you…don’t speak Spanish…in Spanish?”

Yep, that figures. You groan in frustration and push as hard as you can, to no avail. “Look, buddy, I don’t want whatever you’re selling! Just–!”

He shoves open the door with a force that breaks the chain lock and sends you falling back on your ass just as something hits your kitchen wall. Something small, that breaks the tile, and _holy shit is that a bullet hole in your wall_?! You barely get the chance to think it when something whizzes right past your face. You flinch at the sharp edge of air but you don’t get to process that either until your uninvited, unwanted guest has you shoved down against the counter, crushed against him, and bullets are pinging off his shield in an unrelenting cacophony.

A scream gets caught in your throat and everything is both loud and muted, hazy and real, and you cling desperately to the Captain’s shirt as he throws his shield at someone coming in the window. It bounces back into his hands in time to keep you both from looking like Swiss cheese but then he throws it _again_ (why can’t he just let a fucking shield do what a fucking shield is supposed to do?!) and you hear it thunk off of _more_ people before it returns to his hand like the shield always wanted to be a boomerang and so it made it happen with a spunky attitude and a pure heart and a will to win and you might be losing it a little.

Captain America shouts something but under the hail of gunfire all you hear is “Sam!” and “–car–” and then he throws you away from him like you’re a balled up piece of paper, which, you’re not _thrilled_ by. Even though he seems to have brought a death sentence with him at least he has some form of cover– well, if he can keep it in his hands for longer than a second he’d have some fucking cover, Jesus Christ, is that thing a Death Frisbee or a goddamn shield– and you’re curled up in a corner, wondering if you can make it to the door.

Someone, head to toe in a black outfit that hides everything and holding a gun so big it almost makes you wet yourself, apparently takes issue with that thought and grabs your arm so hard it feels like they’re trying to pull it off. They let go when someone else kicks them in the head. You can’t see your new ally too well but they’re a lot smaller than Captain America (not like that’s hard) and they’re moving so fast, taking out black-suited bad guys with hard hits and guns like they’re equal.

There’s a break in the fighting and shooting and your new friend turns to look at you with a close eye. You were just sweating because you carried a load of laundry up the street. She just took out ten militant-looking motherfuckers and looks like all she has to do is grab her purse and she’ll be ready for drinks with the girls.

Life isn’t fair, sometimes.

Of course, you feel like you vaguely recognize her, and of course, you realize why when Captain America gives her an appreciative nod. She’s not always fully in the public eye, for obvious reasons, but you read enough Avengers-related shit that you’ve seen her picture a time or two.

There’s yelling from downstairs and Black Widow appropriates a weapon or two from the passed-out or dead people currently carpeting your floor, and shoots out the window. The yelling stops.

Captain America extends his hand to you. “You need to come with us. Now.”

He speaks with the tone of someone who doesn’t expect to get argued with, but he has never met you. “What? No!”

Black Widow bends down to look at you and for the first time today you’re actually willing to crawl behind Captain Asshole for protection. “Do you know James Buchanan Barnes, formerly known as ‘The Winter Soldier’?”

Terror or no, you clamp your mouth shut. You swore you’d never sell him out and you’re not about to choke at crunch time. However Black Widow studies you and nods like she’s got what she needs. Well, not talking probably gives her all she needs to know. “He’s currently MIA and we’re tracking him. Along with these guys.” She nudges a body with her gun. “They didn’t come after _us_. I made sure we weren’t followed. Which means they somehow found out about you, independent of us. Which means they _will not stop_ until they have you, and I guarantee we’ll be a lot nicer to you than they will.”

You swallow hard. You don’t get a chance to say anything when a smoking canister is tossed in through your broken screen. Widow turns and tosses it back out but Captain grabs her and somehow shoves all three of you behind his shield when it explodes and something tangy and stinging filters in, scratching your throat and burning your eyes.

There’s no more discussion; Widow runs ahead and Captain grabs you and drags you along, holding his shield to protect you from stray gunfire but it’s a lot less than before and seriously what is your fucking life that ‘only a little gunfire’ makes you feel _relieved_?

Captain opens the back door of a nondescript black SUV and pushes you in, hopping in right behind. It’s quiet and there’s a ringing in your ears that’s starting to ramp up, so you rub them as the car tears out. Widow’s in the passenger seat and you look up at the rearview mirror to see someone staring back at you. “Bucky’s a lot smaller than I remember,” the man says and turns his head back to the road, showing you more of his face and that’s the Falcon. You’re stuck in a car with fucking Falcon, Black Widow, and Captain America. If Iron Man shows up you’re going to scream.

“Are you all right?” Captain America asks you and you stifle the urge to punch that concerned look off his face. You’d probably only hurt your hand anyways.

“Kidnapped by Captain America,” you groan to yourself and rub your face. What the fuck is your life?

“That sounds like a hell of an autobiography title. Need me to write the forward?”

The Captain sighs. “Sam,” he says with tired exasperation and you sort of agree with him, not that you’re going to tell him that.

Instead, you lean your head against the window and wonder how the hell you ended up here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first multi-chapter attempt in many years. Well, the first one I’ve posted, at least. As such, there’s no posting schedule for this, it’s more of a fun, ‘as I feel like it’ story. I’m aiming for a chapter every other week but we’ll see how it goes. This is your warning :) Also, the Reader character in this story is pretty sassy and has a stronger personality than I tend to write for reader-inserts. I sometimes wonder what makes a reader-insert versus an original character, for me, and I think I’m starting to come down to: no stated name, vague physical descriptions, and not a lot of past, so that’s where I’m coming from with this story.
> 
> Random note: I know “no hablo español” is played out and dumb but you can pry that joke from my cold dead fingers, I love it so.


	2. “Yesteryear” or “The Rise of Trash Panda”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life was so much better before some hot hobo started hanging out near your preferred trash dump site.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Mentions of depression, briefly mentioned off-screen past suicide.
> 
> A/N: I can’t believe I actually finished this chapter in a week. Go me. I was gonna post it tomorrow but I’ve got stuff to do so I figured I might as well post it now. Important to note: This is a flashback chapter. There will be more interspersed throughout the story and I will mark them as such in the author’s notes. Sorry if that’s confusing, that’s just how I wanna play. I was going to do them in past tense to help differentiate but…it didn’t work. (Yes, I found that out by writing this chapter more than once. Sigh.) And by the way, uh, relevant disclaimer: please don’t take in random dudes off the street whose state of mind you are unsure of, no matter how cute and sad they are. If you do, it’s not on me. (PS: Apologies for the length; hopefully the rest of them won't be this long. Hopefully.)

 

You’re just taking out the trash when you see him sitting there. The light glints off of a watch or something and the man, sitting on the ground outside of the dumpsters, glances back at you. He stares blankly for a moment and then shuffles into the shadows the single functioning light can’t touch. You hesitate in going over there –was it a watch that gleamed or a knife?– but the other dumpsters are way over on the other side of the complex and there’s no way your cheap trash bag will survive the journey.

And you just don’t _wanna_.

So laziness wins out over your will to survive– sadly not an uncommon event, but hey, you’re still here. Somehow. You go to the side opposite of maybe-has-a-knife-man, (you hope he won’t be around long enough for you to give him a better name), throw your bag over the wall into the closest can, and book it back to your apartment.

He’s gone the next morning when you’re leaving for work. It makes complete sense, considering the trucks are coming around and those dumpsters smell so bad even when they’re empty that you can’t imagine someone sitting next to them for too long. However that theory is put to the test when you’re coming home from work at dusk, because there he is again. You can see him better from this angle with at least a little bit of light, though you try not to stare. He looks oddly clean for a guy who keeps spending his nights hanging around a dumpster. Aside from a tragic smearing of eyeliner that makes him look like the Hamburglar, and the fact that it’s stupidly warm and he’s wearing gloves and a jacket, he seems like some guy that isn’t allowed to smoke in the house and goes and curls up wherever.

He glances up at you as you pass, catching you mid-stare. You flinch but decide it’s better not to poke the bear, so you put on a smile and say, “Evening,” like you find it totally normal for dudes to hang out next to giant stinking trash cans at night so no with the murder please and thank you.

“Ma’am,” he says like it’s instinct but he looks as surprised by it as you are. Well, he’s certainly more formal than your average dumpster diver. Or human born after 1880. Still, you want to play it cool and part of playing it cool means you keep walking, even as his eyes look downcast and he hangs his head likewise. As you walk away you realize he reminds you of your old neighbor, Keith, who used to live across from you and whose good days meant he flashed a brilliant smile and greeted you like you were a wonderful person to know, and whose bad days eventually culminated with his few material possessions being taken out in garbage bags, much like the coroner took him.

You get a little choked up at the thought and stop, but then force yourself back to reality and put one foot in front of the other. Big, Bulky and Morose isn’t your responsibility. You can’t save everyone– not Keith, and sometimes even barely yourself. Maybe the guy is actually dangerous. Maybe he doesn’t want to be helped. All these justifications, and yet as you shut your door and flip the lock, you feel like you’ve failed somehow.

The next morning you have the day off and even though you set out early, the guy is gone again, like the morning before. You sigh and slip the ten back into your pocket. If you see him again, maybe you could drop it in the dirt next to him. You aren’t super enthused about approaching a strange man at night, and he has pretty sharp eyes. You have faith he can take a hint.

Or maybe, you realize when you spy him at the coffee shop, he’s more okay than you had thought. He looks cleaner now in the light of day, with slightly damp hair hanging out of his well-worn hoodie, and he has only minor traces of the heavy eyeliner so he looks a little less ‘ugly crying after Halloween’ and a little more ‘cleaned up emo’ which…sort of works for him, you can’t lie. Also, he’s playing with a smartphone and sipping from a coffee cup.

You sigh with relief and use your hard-earned money to buy your own morning treat and take a table on the other side of the shop. Maybe he just got kicked out and doesn’t have anywhere to go yet. You sit back and sip your coffee guilt free. Until, completely by chance, you look over and see him standing by a vacated table. He glances around furtively and snatches a half-eaten muffin so smoothly that he’s back in his seat, eating it, all in a mere moment and with nobody around him any wiser.

Okay, maybe not doing quite so well. You rub the bridge of your nose. If you could read the name on the cup you doubt it would match him at all. (It’s probably ‘Susan’ or something else hilarious.) (Oh god, maybe something awesomely misspelled.) (You really wish you could see it now.)

_In any case_ , he isn’t your concern, but damn if you could watch some guy look that sad and lost and hungry and not do something.

So you consider the remainder of your coffee money and mentally go over your options.

Even with a plan, you chicken out that night. And the next night. To be fair, it is a really bad idea. You’re a woman alone and he’s some sketchy dude who makes sad faces next to a dumpster. Unfortunately for you and your sense of self-preservation his sad faces are really, really good and you are starting to feel really, really bad, which makes you really, really angry, until the third night after that morning in the coffee shop you’re steaming mad at no one but you still stomp up next to him like everything is all his fault. Well, it is. Kind of.

“Hey Trash Panda,” you bark out a little harsher than you intended. To his credit he just looks mildly confused and turns his head towards you, inclining it as if to say ‘who, me?’ Ugh, that _face_. “Yes, you of the lamentable eyeliner and woeful eyes, who manages to get by in a trendy-ass coffee shop not stinking of the dumpster you so love to hang out by.”

He frowns and traces his eyes momentarily, like he can just wipe the liner right off despite it staying through the showers he must be sneaking at the gym. He suddenly seems to realize that, puts his hands down, and glares at you. “What do you want?”

You open your mouth only to find that’s a pretty good question. What did you w– oh, right. You clear your throat. “I…invited a friend over for dinner and they bailed on me, so I’ve got too much food. I just wanted to see if you wanted their share.”

“No thanks,” he grumbles and folds back up into himself. You thought this might happen– you aren’t the only one that’s noticed him taking bits of trash. Yesterday some guy took over a sandwich and ended up cursing as he left, something about ‘beggars can’t be choosers’ while Dumpster Friend had eyed the fresh food like it was going to explode. It’s the only piece of foodstuff you’ve ever seen him actually throw out, and after that display of distrust you aren’t sure if it’s because he’s too proud to take it, or if there’s some other reason that needs a qualified professional to deal with. You’re not a qualified professional, but you are a human with access to a limited fund and an oven. It’s not much, but it’ll have to do for now.

“Okay. But, if you change your mind, I’m over in 17R,” you say and gesture at your apartment in the visible distance, sealing the deal on the bad idea so you can’t back out now. Hooray. “It’s no skin off my nose if you don’t want any. It’s a pretty cheap lasagna but it’s good and it makes good leftovers.”

He grunts and you, while you don’t feel good about what’s transpired, at least feel like you’ve done your best. You tell yourself that as you dish out your serving and sit down to eat. Not your fault, his choice, you’ve done what you can and that is that.

_Knock, knock._

Or not. You put down your fork with the first bite still on it and get up, opening your door fully to see your grumpy neighborhood vagrant looking like he’s more afraid of you than you are of him. You aren’t sure if that says more about you or him, but it is a little reassuring. Unless he suddenly decides you’re a threat and actually pulls out a knife. That would be bad.

“What’s a…‘trash panda’?” he asks. He inhales like you’ve put out a home-cooked meal rather than pre-packed freezer fodder.

“I’ll bring up a picture if you want. The resemblance is uncanny,” you say and shrug. “So, uh, did you…change your mind?”

He looks like he’s changed his mind right there at the door, shifting on his feet like he’s ready to bolt. But he sets them down, firm and flat, and nods. You lead, and he follows, and no knives are pulled, thank goodness. During dinner you find out he’s really, _really_ hungry when he eats five-sixths of the big lasagna pan you bought, and you also find out his sense of humor needs work.

“I do _not_ look like a raccoon,” he says, scowling as you laugh and put your phone away.

“Whatever eyeliner you had on must have been a hell of a thing, because it’s still lingering,” you say. The conversation stalls; he’s picking at the small remainders of his food to savor it, and you don’t have anything else to give him, so you clear your throat. “So, Trash Panda– why the dumpsters?”

He considers the question. Or his answer. The guy keeps coming back though so there’s gotta be a reason why he isn’t hanging out behind a 7-11. “It’s off the path and close to the bushes. I can hear people coming and going. I get left alone.” He gives you a stink eye. “Mostly.”

You snort and use your fork to point at his almost-empty plate. “Stop complaining with your mouth full.”

He covers his portion like he expects you to steal a bite and takes a defiant one himself. As he chews he looks more like a chipmunk. It makes you smile. Impossibly, it also makes him look more human. So many times you’ve caught him with a blank, dead stare in the distance, even in the coffee shop. Here, now, he doesn’t look so haunted. “You just passing through here or looking to settle into the area?”

His chewing slows and he swallows. He thinks on that for a few seconds. “I don’t…know.”

The guy switches through moods faster than you can flip through channels. Woeful eyes indeed, you are trying to _eat_ here, so you try for something else. “Well if you’re shopping around I can’t say I’d recommend the trash area behind Walmart; it’s pretty gross and gets loud since it’s right near the loading dock, but it is more industrial if that’s your cup of tea. However the bins behind the McDonalds are kinda squished into a corner and there’s a pretty tree nearby. Makes it more homey.”

Trash Panda stares at you with a flat expression. “Hilarious,” he says, his voice doing its best to imitate a straight line.

You grin. “Well, Trash Panda–”

He says something, but now his voice is so soft you have to lean in. “Huh?” you ask.

He looks at you, and you can see him swallow. His voice, when he speaks again, is much clearer. “My name is…Bucky.”

He pauses, like he expects you to make fun of it and doesn’t that suck out all the joy. “There are, like, a bajillion terrible nicknames I can make out of that, aside from the obvious. You sure you don’t want to stick with Trash Panda?”

He rolls his eyes and huffs, but his shoulders relax a bit. “Why do I get the feeling you’re going to call me whatever you want to?”

“Well now, you’re definitely smarter than you look,” you say and stretch out, done with your food. Bucky is too, and after some hesitation wherein he stares at you a little too long, he looks awkwardly around and then pulls out his wallet, takes a twenty, and puts it on the table.

“Uh, whoa.” You grab the bill and hand it back to him. “I can’t take your money.”

He stares at you. “Yes you can.”

You roll your eyes. “Smartass. Fine– I can, but I won't.”

He frowns. “Why not?”

“Well, for one, this is way more than I spent on the lasagna. For another, you live next to a dumpster. You need all the cash you can get. Fuck; I almost dropped some money in your general vicinity hoping you’d take it.”

He flashes you a smile that gives you the vague impression he’s laughing at you, which, rude, you’re the one supposed to be doing all the mocking here. But he pulls out his wallet again and shows you the insides– _several_ bills, at least a few of which are twenties that you can see, and cards lining the interior. Your jaw drops and Trash Panda, Loaded Hobo, Wealthy Raccoon, sits back in his chair.

“Wait.” Wait. “If you’ve got money then…” You can hardly even wrap your head around the question. “If you’ve got money then why are you hanging out behind a dumpster and eating other people’s leftovers?”

“It’s…” He shakes his head. “It’s a long story. But at the very least, it’s more than I deserve.” He looks down again and it’s like he’s shifting gears. When he looks at you again it’s like sorrow is a circle in hell and you are burning in it. “Thank you. For this,” he says and nods at your crummy little apartment like it’s more than he knows what to do with. You still don’t know what to say. This is…this is…

His eye twitches.

That _fuck_.

“You…” you breathe and when he slowly grows a truly wicked smirk you ball up your paper towel napkin and chuck it at his head with an extreme effort that, unfortunately, doesn’t translate into speed or force. “You manipulative _fuck_!” Holy shit, what an asshole. You might be in love. “My _heart_. You almost had me, you raggedy son of a bitch. Ugh; _sincerity_.”

His smirk becomes something closer to a real smile. Not quite, but almost, and it’s…something. _Down girl_ , you tell your libido, for what little good it does you. “I knew you had a weakness,” he says, bringing his glass of water up to his mouth. He snorts. “‘Trash Panda,’” he mutters and throws back the last of his drink.

You can’t help it. You burst out laughing.

And fuck him; you’re keeping the twenty.

 

It’s three in the morning. Too early to be up but your bladder says otherwise, and then your throat is parched, so your body’s just trying to fuck you over, for what you can see. After dinner you had offered Trash Panda the couch but while he had sincerely considered it, he had ultimately refused and gone back to his dumpster haunting ways. No hard feelings, except for the fact that after that whole ‘heartfelt’ stunt you have resolved to ‘accidentally’ drop a bag on his head the next time you see him. Still, you feel a little bit better about your local fuckboy vagrant.

Until you walk into the living room to see one of the little lamps on and the bastard is laid across your couch like you didn’t lock the door behind him hours ago.

You choke down a startled yell and stare at him. He lifts his head, blinks a few times, and stares back. Just. Stares. Man, raccoons really are assholes. You finally take a breath. “ _Seriously_?”

He squints at you, looks at you like he’s sizing you up, then ‘fwump!’s his head back down into the cushion. “You weren’t using it.”

You roll your eyes. You should be more freaked out by this. Why aren’t you freaked out by this? It’s three in the fucking morning; there can’t be emotional responses at three in the fucking morning. “Normally, in polite society, you _ask_ first.”

“You offered.”

“You refused!”

“So I should ask again, then?”

“Yes!”

“Fine: are you going to be using your couch?”

Fucking sassy bastard. You really shouldn’t have fed him after midnight. You roll your eyes up to heaven and pray to god to grant you strength. So that you can choke out this over-muscled asshole. Make him _need_ the couch. “Cute, but not what I meant.”

He grunts again and _snuggles_ into your throw pillow. It’s not cute. It’s not cute. If you tell yourself that enough then it will be true. Right? “Too early,” he grumbles. “Go back to bed.”

“I–I–” That’s actually an argument you can’t formulate. _Fuck._ You get the feeling that this guy is going to be trouble. You pull the navy blue blanket off the back of the couch, dump it over his head, pray it somehow suffocates him in his sleep, and turn to leave.

“By the way, you really shouldn’t leave your windows open. It’s dangerous.”

_Fucking_ Trash Panda.


	3. “Home Away from Home” or “FML”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What’s a little question(ing) between friends?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can’t believe I actually got this done in a week. I might even get chapter 4 done in time to post next week. Not to jinx myself or anything but I’m crossing my fingers. This chapter is a bit of setup so bear with me, but I still hope you enjoy it.

 

“So…I’m guessing we got off on the wrong foot?”

You give Falcon a dirty look. It’s dark out now and you’ve all been stuck in a car for hours. Captain America looks frayed, Falcon is visibly trying to hold it together, and even Black Widow looks a little rough around the edges. Now that they’ve finished ‘checking the perimeter’ of the crappy motel, only one room of which you’re all holed up in, you wonder why they don’t take the opportunity to rest. God knows you need it.

Apparently that’s not in the cards, as Falcon doesn’t look the least bit perturbed by your pointed aggravation as he takes a seat on the bed just behind and next to Captain America, who sits up straight in one of the crappy armchairs. Black Widow is already standing on the Captain’s other side and it feels like you’re staring down a tribunal when the worst thing you did today was accidentally drop your jeans on the dirty laundromat floor when you were trying to shove everything in the dryer.

Damn it. You did _laundry_ today. For _nothing_.

“Let’s start from the beginning,” the Captain says and puts his hand on his chest. “My name is Steve Rogers.”

Wow, who could have guessed. Not like you did a report on him in friggin’ middle school or anything. That you got a C on. That’s not his fault though. Captai– _Steve_ is both more interesting (muttering under his breath when you got stuck behind someone trying their best to imitate a turtle) and more irritating (getting your home shot up; trying to make you buy something ‘more nutritious’ at a goddamn gas station) than school-sanitized history books have led you to believe.

Irritating though– whenever the topic had come up Trash Panda had mostly devolved into incoherent grumbling that you had thought was just a shared history no one else could touch. You can hardly believe it but your grumpy old ex-assassin had actually _held back_ on what an annoying little-big shit Steve Rogers can be. You can’t even count the number of times you’ve been tempted to throw either him or yourself out of the car throughout the day, but you still remember that bridge with fond longing.

“This is Sam Wilson.” Falcon gives a little wave.

“And this is–”

“Natasha,” Black Widow says, still giving you the hairy eyeball. That’s fair. Utterly terrifying, but fair.

Still, you take a deep breath and try to stay calm. Steve, Sam, and Natasha. You can deal with this. Maybe.

“What’s your name?” Fal– _Sam_ says with a gentility that surprises you. But you’re apparently in a game of Good Cop-Bad Cop-Lawful Good Cop (Steve Rogers, acting ‘lawful’; _hah_ ) and you only care to give them enough so that Bad Cop doesn’t take you out, so you mutter your name. Sam nods and repeats your first name. “Are you okay?”

You can only blink at him, at first. “Well, Captain Americ– sorry, _Steve_ , some two-hundred pounds of Purple Muscles Majesty, shows up at my door in his work outfit with his shield in hand and all of a sudden my apartment is shot to hell and back and I’m in an episode of “24,” which I found too stressful to even _watch_ on TV.” You sit back and cross your arms. “So I guess I’m fucking peachy.”

Sam smiles a little, like he doesn’t want to, and he puts up his hands. “That’s fair.”

“We didn’t lead them there,” _Steve_ says for maybe the hundredth time.

“Right. Special forces looking fuckers show up for afternoon tea every Saturday; how could I have forgotten our appointment?” You wave your hand flippantly. “Please take me back home so I can make sure I get back for my Sunday crochet club with the fucking Green Berets.”

“You _really_ want to go back home?” Natasha asks with one perfectly arched brow.

“I’m not looking forward to the mess I’ve gotta clean up, but I don’t know why you guys dragged me along in the first place.” That’s not true– ‘Bucky, Bucky, Bucky’ seems to be the only word Steve can say– but you really don’t want to go there. Playing dumb has gotten you through before, so why can’t it work now?

“We’re not the bad guys.” Captain America stares at you like he can telepathically will you into cooperating. You imagine a giant middle finger, just in case he really can read minds. Alas, the blue eyed wonder sighs and sits back, unaffected. “How about…we just take it easy. Nothing current. How did you first meet Bucky?”

You check your nails. Half of them are broken and the other half are going to get chewed right off your hand by tomorrow if this day continues on any longer. Great.

“Well, if you don’t want to talk about Bucky, perhaps we can talk about you,” Natasha says and pulls out a manila folder seemingly from thin air. She opens it and starts reading about, well, you: easy facts like your name, address, age, social security number, past and present employment. Honestly it gets pretty boring so you zone out for a while.

“‘Previously nominated for watch–’”

“Wait, I’m on a watch list?” You put your hands on the arms of the chair and lean forward. “For _what_?”

“For…” Natasha trails a finger down the page and “hmm”s. “‘Continued and excessive interest in known terrorist group Hydra.’”

“Oh.” You sit back. Given all your trips to the library for a certain _someone_ , you probably should have seen this coming. Asshole.

“‘Investigations found…” She mouths ‘blah blah blah’ and okay, she might be in league with Steve “Sadass” Rogers, but you kinda like her for that. She snaps the cover shut and her smile is less than friendly. More ‘eat you alive’. You like her a little less. “Good news: you’re not Hydra.”

“Pretty sure Captain Grumpy over there wouldn’t have politely knocked on my door if you thought I was,” you say. “Look, I don’t know what to say. I don’t have anything for you.”

“Then we should take you home,” Natasha says.

“You should,” you agree. If she’s surprised she doesn’t show it. Maybe she’s fed up with this too.

Still, Steve says, “Hydra’s probably crawling all over your city–”

“–County, surrounding areas–”

“Right; thanks Natasha.” Steve rolls his eyes and you have a new measure of respect for the guy since, personally, that seems like a surefire way to get them ripped out of his head. “–And you want to go back home?”

No. “Yes.” But this is a bad position to be in. “Better that than to get my body dumped in the river after being ‘questioned’.”

Steve rubs his face. Sam and Natasha look a little more calculating, like they know what you’re doing, but at least Flag Man is easy to rile up. It might buy you some time. Of course, Hopelessly Devoted might catch on eventually, but hopefully you’ll be gone or have a better method of zipping your fucking lips by then. You made a promise. “I don’t know how many more ways to tell you we’re not going to hurt you.”

How’s about not getting frustrated with the person who may or may not be afraid of you? Christ; for a guy who seems to do primarily rescue-oriented shit, Steve’s people skills need some work. You’re doing him a service, really, by giving him more practice. Not everyone can swoon into the guy’s arms, right?

Sam clears his throat. “Look, it’s been a long day and we all need to eat and take a breather. Come on.” Sam pats Steve’s shoulder and gets up with Steve following, even though the resident geriatric looks confused. “Nat?”

“We’ll be fine,” she says and they exeunt stage left. This leaves you alone with Red Riding Hood. Or maybe Lethal Snow White is more apt. Skin as white as snow, lips as red as the blood she probably spills just to get to her coffee in the morning. Fan-fucking-tastic.

“I don’t know what you know about Steve,” she says, taking the seat vacated by Oh Captain Her Captain. “But he isn’t stupid. We all know you’re deflecting on purpose.”

There’s no way to respond to that without possibly giving her something she wants and can use to dig deeper. You’re not quite sure there’s a single word in any language you can say that won't help her, actually, and you’ve given them too much as it is. You regret not playing dumber earlier but, well, it’s been a stressful day and you’re willing to cut yourself some slack for not being at your best when you were under fucking fire.

Natasha doesn’t seem bothered by your lack of response. She stares at you while sitting sideways in the chair and draping her legs over the arm of it like it isn’t the rattiest thing in the room. Well. Second rattiest, you realize as a piece of stuffing comes off in your hand and you drop it to the floor. She’s kind of like a cat, watching and waiting. You’re tempted to stick your tongue out at her, but you’re not sure she wouldn’t cut it off on principle. Pro: helpful in keeping secrets. Con: terrible for the rest of your life. Also probably unimaginably painful.

You get up and wait for a moment but Natasha doesn’t snap at you to sit your ass down, so you don’t. You walk around the small room, grateful to stretch your sore legs for a moment. It’s kind of gross what you’re grateful for right now– not being dead, not being in a car with three cranky super-assholes, being able to step over that weird wet-looking spot on the carpet– but it’s. It’s whatever. It’s probably better than whatever Trash Panda is doing right now.

You wince a little at the thought. You really want to ask Intimidating Ginger Spice some questions of your own: why is Bucky on the run, why are they chasing him, why are those other assholes chasing him. Does she think he’s all right. But all of that could open a can of worms you don’t want to deal with. And the questions she would surely bring up to follow– yuck.

So you walk around. The room is kind of tight with two big beds, two armchairs that used to be on opposite ends of a wobbly, graffiti-scratched table before the attempted inquisition, a console with a TV on it, and a bathroom you can barely tolerate long enough to pee in.

It makes you a little homesick, to be honest. You turn on the TV to distract yourself from the fact that Natasha is creepily silent and you continue to pace. Surreptitiously you pat your pocket for your phone but it’s not there anymore. You stop and give up the ghost because you _know_ you had it in the car; you could feel it digging into your thigh for about an hour before you all were allowed to get out and stretch for the first time, and you never had the chance to pull it out; so wh–

“You don’t have a lot of contacts in here.”

You sigh, because your life is just so _dumb_ right now. You turn and fix Natasha with the most ‘I am not impressed with you’ stare you can manage and yet hers is still so much better even though she’s staring at the screen and not even looking at you. Rude. “Is there a reason you have my phone? It’s not like I can call anyone for assistance. ‘Yes, hello 911, I have been taken into unlawful custody by Captain America and his Super Friends. Hello? Hello?’”

Natasha tilts her head to the side and stares at you. It’s…unnerving. But she holds the phone up and you approach cautiously, in case it’s a trap. But you snatch your portable boredom-killer without losing a limb and all she does is stare at you. “You should be less worried about us trying to cut you off and more concerned about the people who will track you using that,” she says and nods once at the phone, and then looks back out the window.

Well that’s pleasant. “How would they track it? Wait, no, dumb question; I guess, um…but why? Those guys that came to my place, you took them all out.”

Natasha gives you a look that just about _drools_ ‘oh honey’ and you examine your phone, wondering just how high-tech those assholes are (probably very) and if they can get into your phone (if probably very, then definitely yes).

“I locked it down.”

“Are you psychic?” you blurt out because there are a lot of things you are going to change about your mind if she is. Namely, the ‘thinking’ and ‘being conscious’ bits.

She smiles. It’s not terrifying, but it’s also not reassuring. It’s a lot less intense than her face has been so far, though, so you don’t cringe back. “No. But you can be easy to read, when you’re not worried about it.”

You huff, but before you can resolve to become an emotional turtle, Sam and Steve return with enough bags to feed a small platoon. They’re also very…quiet. Even Natasha looks them over carefully. “Do we need to move?” she asks.

“No, we…” Steve looks over at you and sighs. If he starts spelling things out like you’re a dog you don’t care if he is Truth, Justice And The American Way, you will strangle him in a very non-metaphorical way. Well, you’ll try. Stupid Beefcake McMuscles; _nobody_ should have a neck as thick as a human thigh.

“We’ll talk about it after we eat,” Sam says, pulling stuff out of the bags as Steve drags the chairs back to the table. Sam nods his head at you. “Hope you like all-American fare.”

“I didn’t realize we were desperate enough to start cannibalizing Steve so soon.” But the burgers and fries smell fucking amazing so you approach them. “Dibs on the thighs.”

“Nah, he comes in handy and we need him mobile. You’ll have to be okay with burgers,” Sam says.

It’s okay; Steve looks like he tastes bitter anyway. Or sour, judging by his expression, so you pull up a burger and handful of fries and start chowing down. Hopefully there’s no truth serum sprinkled over this shit because you are fucking starving.

Of course you’ve barely taken a bite when you hear a familiar string of words coming from the TV– the news, judging by the bored and boring inflection of the speaker, and your head swivels around like it’s automatically set to. On the screen is an aerial shot of a burning inferno that holds no meaning to you. At first, because it takes only a second to realize you used to call that hellscape _home_ and your food falls out of your hands.

Someone says your name and you hold up your hand without looking, because otherwise you’re going to bite their head off. The reporter mentions ‘only one’ fatality and just as you’re working up to a real good upset, a picture flashes on the screen and your jaw drops.

But, ick, did they _really_ have to use your driver’s license photo?

At least the sick feeling from ‘only one fatality’ recedes. It’s not on you, wouldn’t really be on you, but…

“Dead, huh?” You can’t tear your eyes away from the screen. You pat yourself and, no, you're still living a particularly sucky chapter of your life. “Talk about a plot twist.”

Steve says your name but you ignore him and start shoving the food down your throat. Better that than snapping at him. Someone turns off the TV and you all eat in silence. You finish first and look around again. There are only two beds but they’re pretty big. There’s also the chair–

“That bed is yours,” Natasha says and points at the one closer to the bathroom. Not the one next to the window and door. Naturally.

“Great.” You finish your food without tasting a single bite, go to wash your hands of the grease and smell, and then flop onto the bed, facing the wall and ignoring the murmurs coming from the table. Your stomach churns at the fact that there are people out there that will burn an entire apartment complex down just because you happened to live there. You think that it might be a good thing that Captain America showed up– well, maybe you won't go that far _yet_ , but it’s becoming a distinct possibility. Guys with guns? Obviously they were after the giant eagle on your doorstep. Guys setting your house on fire long after you’re gone and going out of their way to somehow stage your death?

You drag a pillow over your head. Fucking Bucky _better_ be willing to share his couch with you. It’s only fair.

You hope that stupid trash panda is okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Chapter 4 – “Homecoming” or “How Steve Rogers Finally Came to Love the 21st Century”


	4. “Homecoming” or “How Steve Rogers Finally Came to Love the 21st Century”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve thinks he’s doing all right. Leave it to Bucky to turn that idea on its head. Jerk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special Chapter Warnings: Flashback chapter
> 
> A/N: Fucked up sleep schedule and an inability to stop poking at my writing make for a chapter posted at ‘fuck o’clock’. In all seriousness though I’m not giving you a piece of crap; the chapter is done, as done as it’s gonna be, so I do hope you enjoy it. Steve is such a drama llama; I love him so <3 There is no Reader in this part but this is important and I had a lot of fun writing it, so up it goes. Next chapter is shaping up to be a lot of fun too; plenty of snark and sass. I have a thing for it B) Also, as a side-note, major thanks to everyone liking/commenting. I’m not so great at responding all the time but I notice all the kudos and read all your comments and they make me incredibly happy. You are all 13/10 trash pandas.

 

 

On most days, Steve actually likes where and when he is. Sure, he might have lost everything he knew and everyone he loved, but his job, so to speak, means he often gets a firsthand view of other people losing almost as much. Sometimes he thinks he might even have it easier– everything has changed, is changing, so much he sometimes feels like he’s been dropped into an alternate universe. Sometimes he secretly plays along with that fantasy until, New York still being New York, he passes a street he used to know, or a building still standing the test of time, or even a street corner that has been gentrified to hell and back that still manages to pull at something in the back of his mind and he has to face that he too is a memory, a relic, a piece of something ‘unseemly’ forced under a clean cut construct–

He might be taking this metaphor a bit too literally.

But it’s not that he hates everything. Certainly, there’s a lot to love, too, and he often focuses on the good. And not just because it cancels out the bad. There are the trite things: he’s healthy, he’s not wanting for food or shelter. But his team is what he finds himself most sincerely grateful for. He misses Peggy, and the Commandos, and–

Steve jerks to a stop next to a water fountain and ducks his face under the spray, despite the fact that he’s hardly sweating. He takes a drink and then for a while he doesn’t process anything but his feet hitting the pavement.

…He likes to think he has a firm, appropriate appreciation for everyone in his life. Sam, the kind of friend anybody would be lucky to have only even one of in their life and he would put him right up there with Bucky– both of them holding a deep bond born of practically nothing, but resulting in the fact that they’d go to the end for each other in a heartbeat. Clint and Natasha; deadly, fierce, graceful assassins with shockingly loyal depths once you’ve earned their trust and respect, and both of whom have the same ridiculous sense of humor with polar opposite deliveries.

Tony, a difficult man who he got off to a rocky start with but whose generosity floors Steve and whose honest personality he would love to see more of. Bruce, one of the nicest and strongest men he has ever had the honor of knowing– so strong, in fact, that even Hulk is starting to act like part of the team. Pepper, somehow both exceedingly kind and strong. (Peggy would have loved her, he realizes with a familiar sting in his chest.) Thor, the god with a heart of gold, who comes to earth more and more to see his girl Jane _and_ his friends.

Steve also knows his good fortune in being able to count Maria Hill as a friend. Despite ‘officially’ resigning from SHEILD to work at Stark Industries, she still disappears from time to time only to reappear with a measured smile and easy deflection. And yet, Steve trusts her; knows that there are few people as capable as her. He doesn’t know what made her so devoted to Fury– he’s pretty sure she’d have to kill him if he did– but he has to respect the man more for it, even begrudgingly. And if that’s not enough to count Fury at the very least as a valuable ally, Fury’s backdoor plan to roust the Hydra snakes hiding in SHEILD and other agencies culminated in the man having to give up his agency. At least it fell into the very capable hands of Director Phil Coulson and his second-in-command (co-director, if you ask Steve) Melinda May.

There are still rough times too. The close calls, the assignments and missions that go sideways– but those aren’t the worst. He has ways of dealing with those dating back to World War II. No, it’s the moments that sneak up on him. Like the nightmares of Clint getting sniped, Sam falling, Tony getting shot down and not getting back up. The times where, after a night of drinking and laughing with his teammates, he wakes in a cold sweat and can’t sleep until he’s reassured by his own nightly patrol that it _isn’t_ an illusion; that he isn’t drowning, dying, dreaming.

His head isn’t a fun place to be, those times, but he won't admit that to anyone. Not to Sam, his other friends, or even his ex-SHEILD therapist, Maria-and-Natasha-approved, who is really very nice and helpful but whose gaze is still sometimes too analytical for him to be completely comfortable.

Steve Rogers was born in the early nineteen-hundreds and lives hale and hearty in the new millennium, in a body he wasn’t born with. He is a veteran of World War II and survived the ground level of the Chitauri Invasion and the SHEILD Insurrection. He saw his best friend come back from the dead to kill him.

Steve Rogers jogs in the morning, reads anything he can get his hands on, and eats three square meals a day. He spends time with his friends and, most of the time, gets a solid night’s sleep. All things considered, he thinks he’s doing incredibly well.

Which is why it is extra disturbing when he walks into the communal kitchen to see _James Buchanan Goddamn Bucky Barnes_ sitting at the kitchen counter, one seat removed from Natasha and Clint, eating a giant bowl of cereal like he _belongs_ there. Not that he doesn’t– Steve has dreamed of things like this– but– but this, _now_ –

_I’ve lost it._

“Mornin’ Cap!” Tony says, entirely too cheerful for this, the day Steven Grant Rogers finally lost his Goddamn mind.

“Morning…Tony…” Because what the hell _else_ can he say?

Bucky has stopped eating for a moment, muscles tensed and for a moment Steve forgets that he’s lost his mind, he just wants to run forward, stop Bucky from running away again, until Bucky relaxes and Steve remembers that this is his incredibly weird domestic fantasy so of course Bucky won’t run away.

But then Tony, being Tony, has to go and break his brain more when the man Steve formerly thought was real reaches out and taps Bucky’s arm with his own fork. The metal ‘tck tck’s against metal. “I know; with how you’ve been running around like a neglectful parent on Christmas Eve I wanted to at least stick a bow on your very own T-1000 but _nooooo_ , I was overruled.”

Maybe Steve is hallucinating _all_ of this. He still can’t speak, luckily, other than a very slight “Oh.”

“When did anybody ‘overruling’ you ever get you to stop?” Clint says.

“When they have an arm that can crush my windpipe. That’s very effective in talking someone down from something stupid. Well, if you don’t have a death wish, in any case; I wish more would-be invaders were less suicidal like that. Hey, you know…”

Steve vaguely realizes Natasha and Clint are herding Tony out of the room, plates in hand, while he blathers on. The former two are the first out but Natasha hangs back, snaps her fingers to grab his attention, and gives him a look he can’t even begin to parse. He turns his head right back to the ghost in front of him and he hears her sigh, and then there is nothing. Nothing but quiet munching and very slight mechanical sounds that Steve assumes come from the arm.

The arm. Attached to the body. Of Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky Barnes. The Winter Soldier. Steve has no real idea of who he’s dealing with, but if James/Bucky/whoever has been sitting with Tony and the genius billionaire philanthropist former-playboy isn’t a stain on the rug, at least he isn’t the Winter Soldier.

Steve approaches slowly and, clumsily, takes a seat next to…Bucky. Whoever he is, he’s Bucky, and he’s _here_ , and he’s _real_. Even at his lowest and most desperate Steve hasn’t had full-on lengthy hallucinations before. He wants ( _God_ he wants) to hug Bucky; to hold him. But Bucky is so tense and the last, _last_ thing Steve wants to do is scare him off. Hell, if Bucky says the only thing that would make him comfortable is if Steve would never look at him again, Steve’ll walk around blindfolded for the rest of his life. It’s the least he can do, after Zola, DC, the trai–

“Stop it.”

Steve blinks. Bucky shoots him a look out of the corner of his eye and goes on eating. “I can _hear_ you working yourself up,” Bucky says around a mouthful of Lucky Charms. “Stark has actual food over there.” He waves in the direction of a buffet-style spread. “Go get some grub before you pass out.”

Steve obeys, moving like a marionette in the hands of a nervous amateur. He pulls things onto a plate without noticing what he’s doing and goes back to sit down. When he’s there again, though, he can’t help but stare.

“And stop looking at me like that,” Bucky says, softer, and stops eating. “I’m here, ain't I?”

“Are you?” Steve says before he can stop himself. He wants to explain, justify, question, beg, but he clamps his mouth shut before it can get him into real trouble.

Bucky looks at him for several seconds, snorts, and goes back to his cereal. “And I thought _I_ was messed up.”

A laugh bubbles up and spills right out of Steve’s mouth. “Why are you always such a jerk?”

“Shut up and eat your bacon.”

Steve nibbles on his food. Bucky eventually slows down, more and more, until he puts his spoon beside the only nearly-empty bowl. “I’m not…like I was. Before. It’ll be different.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“I do,” Steve says firmly. He leans in, just a little. Bucky doesn’t lean away. “I’m not the same either, Bucky. Even if we had come home from the war it wasn’t gonna be the same. And that’s all right.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything to that right away. He tips his bowl back, drinks the sugary milk and stray marshmallows. Once he’s polished off the remainders he licks his lips and sighs. “What is it that you want? What do you think’s gonna happen?”

“What I want? Pie in the sky: I want you to be happy. What’s gonna happen? I have no idea.” And Steve doesn’t think he’s ever been happier about that. He moves a millimeter closer. “Happy’s good, but okay would be fine too. I’d like to help you be okay, if I can.”

Something about that makes Bucky tense, but he shakes his head, mutters, “I sure know how to pick ‘em,” and moves so his shoulder just barely touches Steve’s. It’s not much, but even just this is enough.

Bucky Barnes was born in the early nineteen-hundreds and has been through more horrors than Steve Rogers cares to imagine. But Bucky is here– verbal, and not trying to kill anyone, not under anyone’s control; just here, safe, warm, fed, and protected. As Natasha, Clint, and Tony filter back in, Steve tucks into his breakfast with gusto. He thinks he’s all right. And he thinks, with time, maybe Bucky can be too.

 

“Wait.” Steve looks from Bucky, drinking juice, to Natasha, eating toast and scrolling through her phone. “Nat, you and…Bucky…are okay?”

“Why wouldn’t we be?” Natasha asks.

Is this a trick question? Steve blinks. “He _shot_ you.”

She shrugs. “He apologized.”

“Twice!”

“Sincerely.”

Steve assumes he still looks floored because Clint grins at him and says, “Aw, Cap, it’s okay; when I met Nat she made me choke on my own blood and when I could speak again I offered her a job.”

Steve looks to Tony and really, that should be terrifying, because when one needs a stable and reasonable outlook one should _not_ look to Tony Stark, but at this point Steve just needs someone on his side. However he quickly realizes who he is looking to, and about _whom_. But before Steve can go into a full-on apologetic meltdown Tony just shrugs and says, “He’s pretty good at sincerity.” Tony holds out a steaming mug. “Coffee?”

Steve, after a moment, takes it and throws it back, ignoring the burn.

 _Mostly_ he’s doing all right. Or maybe he’s just surrounded himself with so much fellow crazy that he can’t really tell what ‘all right’ is anymore. He thinks about it for a moment, sees the familiar-unfamiliar head of dark hair flop in a head shake as Tony starts ranting and Natasha’s lips quirk into a smile and Clint leans back to watch the show, and Steve decides he doesn’t really mind.


	5. “Trial by Fire” or “Yes It Goes On and On My Friends”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A close encounter gives you a different insight into Bucky’s mindset. Also, maybe the Avengers are what they’re cracked up to be. Except for Captain America. He’s still the biggest little shit you know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special Chapter Warnings: Violence (not graphically described), emotional turmoil.
> 
> A/N: I am so sorry for the length of this chapter. Every time I tried to edit it, it…just kept going longer. And longer. I have to take my hands off it or it will never end. I mean, it was definitely fun to write, but damn… Other than that, not much for notes this week. Please enjoy. Oh! Wait, I lied, I have a note: I have made a loose timeline and am going to start noting when the flashback chapters take place (or thereabouts). The Reader flashback (chapter two) is about two years before the beginning of this story, and the Steve Rogers one (chapter four) takes place about a year before the beginning of this story. What happened in between then? That will come out in future chapters. For now, just enjoy the ride.

 

 

You. Are. Bored. And tired. And maybe a _little_ bit cranky.

“Aren't there Geneva Conventions against this?”

You can see Steve roll his eyes in the rearview mirror. Thankfully, Captain Caffeine-Denier is driving so you aren’t stuck next to him. As fun as it might be to test the limits of Captain America’s patience, it’s much better to do it where he can’t wrap his hands around your throat.

“It’s almost nine,” Steve says, taking the time to glance back at you again. “When will you stop needing coffee?”

“When I get some.” Duh. “Eyes on the road, Captain Car Accident. If I end up in “Red Asphalt” number 500 I’m gonna haunt your star-spangled ass for eternity.”

“It might be worth it for the wails of agony whenever I walk into a Starbucks,” he mutters.

You snort. “You go to Starbucks? You’re killing me; your fake glasses say ‘Brooklyn hipster douche’ but in reality you’re more of a faux-hipster douche.”

“Okay, hipster and not-hipster,” he says like he gets it (fat chance). “But why does ‘douche’ carry across both? You can get more creative than that.”

“Yeah but your honest personality carries through no matter what you wear.”

“Maybe you’ll feel better if you eat something,” Sam interjects and digs in a duffle bag. You don’t care if he makes a stupid fucking ‘eat a Snickers’ joke because your stomach grumbles at the mere mention of something edible. But what Sam holds out to you is…is…

Your stomach goes silent and you can only stare at the granola bar in his hand.

“You okay back there?” Steve asks. “You stopped complaining.”

You blink. “Okay…” you say and press your back up against the window, pushing back as far away from that _thing_ as you can get. “Okay, I give; what do you want to know? Just–just take it away, please; I’ll cooperate.”

Sam laughs but, mercifully, puts it back. “It’s a granola bar, not a taser.”

“You’re trying to turn my insides into shrapnel. Nuh uh; I’m not falling for that shit.”

“You mentioned cooperating,” Steve says, sounding more like the wretched morning person you just _know_ he is. “How did you meet Bucky?”

Hah. What a loser. “Who names their kid _Bucky_? Like, do parents never consider all the terrible nicknames that people can make from that?”

Steve rolls his eyes again and goes back to scowling at the road. That’s definitely not a bad thing; you rest your head against the window and watch the pavement pass by.

“Buchanan.”

You have to think on what _that_ little non sequitur is about. Steve is stealing glances at you again. “His middle name is Buchanan. James Buchanan Barnes. That’s where ‘Bucky’ comes from.”

“Okay.” You know bait when you smell it so you leave it floating for a much dumber fish. “By the way, where are we going?”

“A safehouse Barnes has used in the past,” Natasha says.

“Ah.” That means exactly nothing to you. “And you’re hoping to…find him there?”

“Or a lead on his direction,” she says and that is that for the next ten hours.

Okay, so not _literally_. It might even still technically be morning when Steve pulls down a street in an under-construction industrial district. The car goes slow, as if this is a neighborhood with a really bored cop just sitting over yonder. But Steve is silent (thank heavens), Natasha is sitting up straighter and even Sam, chill as he is, is at attention. You…sit there and look pretty. Because unless they need someone squinting at building numbers, there’s nothing else to do and you don’t want to distract them.

Mostly you don’t want to distract them, but once you’ve parked you’re bored again as they rifle through the back and load up on weapons. Well, _Natasha_ at least grabs some weapons: a couple of guns, a knife or three, and some little silver things you don’t get a good look at. Steve grabs his shield but doesn’t change out of his ‘normal’ clothes. Sam grabs…a backpack. It’s a nice backpack, you have to admit; hard, futuristic–

“Ooo,” you say when you realize what it really is and you swing behind him to look at it. “Is this where your wings are?”

“You know about my wings?” he says, sounding amused.

“I’ve read a newspaper within the past five years. I know some stuff.” You walk next to him because, despite flying possibilities, right now it’s just a backpack and you doubt that’s going to change anytime soon. Natasha and Steve are walking ahead and aside from him glancing back on occasion, they don’t pay you much attention. That’s…fine. Doesn’t help the atmosphere, though. Benign as the unfinished office building looks– tall, wide, with brick overlay and sheets of plastic blowing lazily in the breeze. The surrounding area is _so_ quiet that it’s creepy. Also, weird. The inside is unpainted, not carpeted, and from what you can tell the entire building has frames but no windows. And yet Natasha goes to the elevator, punches in a code on a little pinpad, and it _works._ The doors open.

“Uh…” you say and hang back.

“It’s all right. It’s safe,” Sam says and gestures for you to go in.

Yeah, because being in a small space with grumpy Captain America, stoic Black Widow, and srs bsns Falcon is a safe, grand old time. You suck it up before one of them can decide to do it for you. The doors shut, the elevator moves, and it is…slow. Natasha actually sighs as you make your way up to whatever ridiculous floor you’re going to. You forget all sense of self-preservation and start humming. Muzak, eat your heart out.

“‘The Song That Never Ends’? Really?” Sam says but, again, more amused than annoyed. You flash him a smile but continue to hum as you stare at the back of Big Blond Eagle’s head. Less than a minute goes by when Steve suddenly slams his hand on the button to stop the elevator.

You are not ashamed of the fact that you find yourself clinging to the one and only Sam “Falcon” Wilson like he is your own personal lifeline. To be fair, his wings probably can’t do much in an elevator shaft, let alone the elevator itself, but you’ll tackle Natasha to the ground before you willingly wrap your arms around Steve.

“ _What_ was that noise?” Natasha asks you, _smiling_ , while Sam tries (poorly, the bastard) to hide his laughter.

Not. Ashamed. And you’re not even going to acknowledge her question. “Can we please get out of the suspended steel deathtrap?!”

“In a moment,” Steve says, preparing his shield. It’s enough to make Sam stop laughing (mostly) and wipes any sense of amusement off Natasha’s face. Sam shuffles you behind him into a corner and there’s a tense second, after Steve forces the doors open, where he pokes his head out and you hope he doesn’t get shot in his stupid face because he might have denied you coffee but you don’t hate him _that_ much. (Yet.)

Thankfully he pulls his head back in, sans lead, and lightens the straight line of his shoulders. “Clear,” he says and you all leave the tiny metal box. You walk down the hall and when you come up at another intersecting hallway they all treat the corner with just as much care and concern.

You don’t have the mental energy to panic at all of these so you just watch Steve bear his shield and Natasha hold her gun at the ready. Once the coast is declared clear and all three are more relaxed as they glance at the rooms you slowly pass, you ask, “Hey, Captain Coffee-Block, why don’t you have a gun?”

He glances back at you, like he’s surprised you’re talking, and then he looks forward with a grimace that implies he’s remembered who he’s dealing with. “I don’t need one.”

You beg to differ. “You take a vow of non-violence or something?” Wait; he had dropped as many bodies in your living room as Natasha had. “Or a…vow of non- _lethal_ …violence?”

Steve flashes you a smirk. “How articulate.”

Brat. “Hey, _you’re_ the one that vetoed a morning essential.” You wave your arms. “I won't speak for anyone else here but _some_ of us mere mortals require a little boost when we have to get up at ass-crack o’clock.”

Steve mutters something you can’t hear but it makes Natasha smile (before she quickly goes back to being too cool for school) so it probably isn’t very flattering. You mock an exaggerated gasp. “ _Captain America,_ are you making fun of me?”

Steve looks at you again, his face almost a straight line. “Do you get more or less annoying with coffee?”

Sam laughs and Natasha rolls her eyes, but she looks at you like she expects an answer. “Definitely less,” you say. You all stop by a door. It looks like any other door you’ve passed so far but Natasha breaks the doorknob and she and Sam case it with their heads on swivel sticks before entering and doing a more thorough search. It’s a…big room. Empty. Boring. Despite that, Steve, Sam, and Natasha look in every corner (all four of ‘em) while you hang back and watch from the hallway. Whatever they’re seeking they don’t find, and soon you’re all back to slinking down the hallway.

“How do I know you’re just not saying that to get coffee?” Steve asks, looking right at you even though he’s still walking. You hope he trips.

“Wha– oh.” You snort. “Buddy, think of it in practical terms. Coffee means I’m drinking, not talking.”

“Ah,” he says as you all stop at another room. “I’ll make it a priority then.”

You clasp your hands. “A man after my heart.”

He’s standing on the other side of the door across from you while Sam and Natasha check out the inside. His big blue eyes go wide and hopeful. It is grossly adorable. “Oh? You mean you have one?”

You clutch your chest. “Oh! The cruelty! Someone fetch the smelling salts!”

He rolls his eyes, losing all pretense of innocence. “I was born in 1918 not 1818.”

“There’s a difference?”

“Natasha, are they flirting or do they actually hate each other?” Sam asks as they rejoin you. “I can’t tell sometimes.”

Laughter bubbles up from somewhere inside you that’s safe from your cold dead heart. Flirting. With Legal Blond Eagle. You cross your arms over your aching stomach and grip your sides. You actually fall on your ass as hilarity knocks you off balance.

“Not flirting,” Natasha says.

“Are you kidding me,” you wheeze as Sam helps you up. You wipe away tears. “Oh my g–”

Contrary to what the good captain might think, you are not dumb, nor are you actively suicidal. So when Steve puts his hand up and Sam goes silent, you also shut up and stop. You stay next to Sam as he pulls out his gun. Steve moves closer to the window frame, shield in hand, and leans against the wall on one side while Natasha makes herself as flush as a painting on the other side. There’s no glass, it’s all open; open to the bright, late morning sunshine and a warm breeze that flows past you. The wind makes you flinch; makes you realize how exposed you are.

You try to take a step back but Sam’s hand presses firm on your lower back so you stop. You look from Sam to Natasha to Steve and decide that maybe a shield is a perfectly fine thing to have after all.

There’s a faint but still all too close explosion outside that makes you want to both jump out of your skin _and_ hit the deck, so you freeze. Steve looks down and spits out a curse that is, unfortunately, drowned out by Natasha’s string of them just before she kicks him back _out_ of the open frame. Gunfire sounds in distant pops that become louder as the bullets start hitting the side of the building and the wall behind you.

Sam shoves you flat and you curl up as he rises just slightly to start firing back. Action movies are so much better when you’re flipping past them with a remote, you think. A flash of movement down the hall makes you un-hedgehog and you can see two black-suited people with nasty-looking guns taking aim in your direction.

You don’t think, you just grab the fabric of Sam’s sleeve and yank him down. He swears at his own misfire but before he starts to yell at you, you just point down the hall and he goes on guard immediately. Sam gets the guy who’s starting to aim at you first, and then the other one that’s already firing at him. While they fall, though, three more come from the corner behind them and pick up the slack.

Two firefights two days in a row. This shit is _tired_.

Your ears are ringing from gunfire and Steve’s shouts aren’t quite loud enough to pierce the haze, though you do _try_ to make out what he’s saying. You hear him shout “GO!” just as something explodes and the hall _fills_ with gas. This is very familiar. Greatest hits or a shitty lack of creativity, it’s the same stuff as before and you scramble on all fours, trying to get away from the wisps already burning your eyes and making you wheeze. A hand grabs the back of your shirt and helps you with that.

‘Helps’ you by throwing you into a stairwell so hard your head smashes into the railing and you lie there, dazed, as the door slams shut, muffling the sounds of the fight. Unless your resident elder statesman is taking more offense to you than he’s letting on–

“That her?”

“Yeah.”

Aw, now this is some bullshit. You play possum, shutting your eyes and deepening your breathing just in case they come to check. Cold concrete isn’t the nicest thing to rest on, but it does provide good contrast to the hot, pulsing pain near your temple and accompanying trail of blood.

“Reload. We won't have any other time to do it,” Assface says.

“Has there been any sign of him?” Douchewad asks.

“No,” Assface grunts and something clicks loudly. “All right. Move.”

One of them grabs you and drapes you over his shoulder. It’s uncomfortable– there are a lot of stupid pokey bits digging into your soft and tender stomach. Briefly you debate the merits of you, an unarmed person without a deathwish, taking on both Grunt #1 and Grunt #2, both armed. The deliberation ends with a resounding ‘fuck that,’ so you keep playing dead. They carry you down a few levels, go back inside the building proper and walk in the opposite direction of the fighting upstairs. They then enter into another echoing stairwell, where they meet up with a group of their equally violent friends.

Yeah, ‘waking up’ seems like a real bad time. Thankfully you are laid upon the ground and ignored while they talk plans and placement. The group disperses with their orders and you are left once more with Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum.

“This is ridiculous,” Douchewad says.

“What do _you_ propose?” Assface asks.

“Shoot her and drag her out. They won't fight so hard over her corpse.”

Words and thoughts cannot express just how _not_ in favor of this plan you are.

“Idiot; she has to be alive. Orders are orders.”

Yes; overruled, Douchewad. ‘Orders’ though. That’s…concerning. But you put it on the backburner for now. You have enough to worry about.

“Dragging her out of here alive is going to be impossible. Black Widow will cut her losses if it gets to be too much.”

“She won't. Her ‘Captain’ won’t let her and she’s his faithful little dog.”

Oh, you are _so_ going to tell Natasha about this. Then she is going to beat the shit out of them and you are going to watch and feel bad not one whit.

“Just because he used her for a safe house doesn’t mean he’ll come back for her.”

…What?

“Oh, he’ll come.” Assface laughs. “We were in loose contact with the cell in Ohio–”

‘The _cell_ in _Ohio_ ’ do these people ever listen to themselves or are you really living out a piece of shitty Tom Clancy fanfiction?

“–and they found out he’d been hiding in that dump–”

_Hey_ , asshole, that ‘dump’ was home.

“–and he burned them _down_. Razed everything. Almost did the same to the base in Tennessee. Normally he leaves _something_ for the Fed pigs to find.”

“And they’re sure it was because of her?”

“Mm hm. Before he went and joined his ‘Superhero Pal Squad’–”

Buddy. Leave the demeaning and derogatory nicknames to the professionals. That was pathetic.

“–we had no record of him, aside from the places he was taking out. Everybody assumed he just kept moving too long. But no, he just erased his tracks too good so he could go back and play house. We have better records of him when he’s on the road with Widow and Hawkeye, for fuck’s sake. Once we did track her down we kept a loose eye on her; figured she was just a crash site. The tape, though? They finally got something out of it just a few days ago. One of the agents was asking about her and the Soldier made threats about if anything happens to her.”

That…that’s…

Something.

It’s a lot easier to lie still after that. After Bucky had left you had hoped for a phone call, a letter, a note, a fucking pamphlet or napkin scribble, just _something_ from him, to you, to let you know he was okay, that he hadn’t…forgotten you. All this time you’ve thought he’d taken your advice to ‘forget about it’ with gusto. But it turns out that ignoring you like a regrettable Spring Break hookup is just his (demented) way of _protecting_ you.

Once you’ve railed him out for his terrible taste in best friends, you’re going to have some choice words about that.

Shots fire but it’s a testament to just how much that fucking raccoon upends your world that you barely notice at first. Asswad and Doucheface or whatever shoot back and you curl up to protect your ears and make a smaller target, but the two numbnuts drop and you flinch as footsteps approach.

Natasha sighs. “Are you going to lie there all day?”

You unfold and use the railing to get up. You’re a little unsteady at first– your legs don’t want to work and your head sways a bit, but when Natasha sizes you up your nerves are what almost bring you down. “Are you all right?” she asks, looking at your head.

You touch it and– fuck, _ow_ , you forgot about that, but the dull headache is back to remind you and that dried blood is going to be hell to get out of your hair. “Yeah, fucking aces,” you grumble.

She gives a curt nod. “Follow me,” she says and starts down. At every landing she stops a moment, listens by the door, and then goes. _You_ never get to stop– she’s moving quick and light and you’re clambering behind like Lurch.

When you catch up she asks, “Why didn’t you run?”

“What?” you ask even as you're trying to get a working breath again.

“From those two idiots,” she says and motions up with her head.

“Wait…” You stand and take a deep breath. “From the guys wielding guns bigger than some children I’ve seen? Really?” She lifts a shoulder and you roll your eyes. “Lady, you need some normal friends. Ones who _don’t_ get their kicks from driving into warzones.”

She stares at you. It’s unnerving. You are not a fan. “Did they say anything?”

You shrug as casually as you can. “Apparently they’re trying to take me alive.”

She rolls her eyes. “I could have told you that.”

Anger flares up in you. “Could you have? Interesting. Because you haven’t told me shit.”

She doesn’t get to say or do anything, thankfully. Not so thankfully, it’s because a door slams somewhere up above and you can hear people running down the steps.

Natasha opens the door and you realize you’re at ground level and the first thing you see is a small group of Bad Guys with, surprise, guns. They don’t notice you at first though and that’s enough time for Natasha to shoot two of them, order you to “ _Go_!” with a firm shove, and engage the last two standing.

You stumble over your feet but run out the side door– and immediately press yourself back against the building behind a decorative outcropping at the sight of _more_ guys (do they ever end?) running around the front to go for Natasha. As soon as they’re gone you bust your ass and _run_.

You push your body well past its limits, take a few turns, and end up gasping for air in a parking garage. Once you get past wishing to die already, you look around. It’s devoid of people, nearly empty, and so much more exposed than you want to be. But no one has followed you, you’re alone, and there are a few scattered cars. And since your ride has been blown to smithereens…

You try a couple of cars before you find an older Cadillac with a busted back door lock. Within a few minutes (during which every distant sound is making you jump; thanks a lot for the possible PTSD, _Captain_ ) you have the car hotwired and ready to go.

You’re planning out how to get back to the building (you cannot get lost, you will never live it down), and how to fit Steve “I’ve never met a gym I don’t like” Rogers in the car (no fucking way is he allowed to sit shotgun. In fact, if you’re driving, can you get away with stuffing him in the trunk?) when you have the sudden, striking, dizzying thought that…

…You don’t have to go back. If you want, you can just leave. Sam, Steve, and Natasha are all Avengers and they will be just fine without you. You can get away from guns and explosions and–

You think of Steve, putting his shield behind you and covering you bodily when you ran out of your home. Sam, who put his hand on yours when you started shaking during the drive after and who just straight up _killed_ a guy who had aimed at you. Natasha, who had come after you and forced you to run while she covered you. All of these people who are Bucky’s friends and who are currently bugging the shit out of you because they’re worried about your favorite (by default, you _swear_ ) trash panda.

“Motherfucking _conscience_ ,” you snarl and tear out of the parking garage. You take your anger out on the accelerator. “Do you have any idea how much easier my life would be without you? No Trash Panda, no Grandpa Freedom, no– oh, wow.”

Natasha has somehow done a mid-air somersault with some dude’s head in her thighs, and he goes flying past the front of your car just before you pull up. She’s still on guard so you motion for her to get her ass inside the vehicle.

As soon as she’s in you’re off. “What was that you said earlier?” she asks. “About having ‘normal friends who don’t drive into warzones’?”

“Shut up,” you grumble, driving around and searching for Sam and Steve. Are they out of the building? They better be out of the building. “Shut up. You wanna go back? I can drop you off.”

Natasha is primping in the visor mirror. “No thank you. I’m done.”

There’s something about her tone that you really don’t like, but before you can ask, there’s a minor explosion (seriously what is your life) from where you just were. Natasha hasn’t even glanced back, even now that she’s done fixing her hair and wiping away blood and dirt. She’s looking out the windshield, but does spare you a glance and a shrug. “They blew up ours. It’s only fair.”

“You,” you say, fixing your eyes ahead, “Are _scary_.”

“Thank you,” Natasha says and points upward. You follow the line and–

Falcon is _flying_. Dodging something, probably gunfire, but he’s taking hairpin turns and diving and–

“Turn right,” Natasha says and you scramble to turn the wheel before you run into a wall and head onto a small road. It leads to a dirt-covered construction site where Fa– _Sam_ has landed and he and Steve are talking in the midst of unconscious-or-dead Hydra jerks and broken weapons.

Natasha rolls down her window. “Hey boys,” she says and it’s pretty funny to see them jump. “Need a ride?”

Sam grins and he and Steve hop in the back. That is also satisfying, watching Steve hunch up behind Natasha like he’s ready to start ringing bells in Notre Dame. But, too bad for hilarity, good for Steve and Sam, Cadillacs aren’t the smallest of cars, and they get themselves sorted out comfortably.

“Thanks for picking us up,” Sam says.

“Yeah, well, cash, grass, or ass, no one rides for free,” you say just as lightly. Sam chuckles.

“Where did you get the car?” Steve asks.

“Good question.” Natasha looks at you and smirks. She says your name like she’s anticipating and delighted by the trouble you’re about to get into. “Where did you get the car?”

You scowl at her. Snitch. “Parking garage,” you mumble, hoping they can’t hear you.

Of course, _Steve_ has to say something about it. “Did you st–”

“Oh no, I do _not_ want to hear about morality from you!” you snap. “Grand theft person is _way_ worse than grand theft auto.”

Captain Asshole is unrepentantly _smug_. “If you say so,” he says mildly as you get on the freeway. “Both felonies, though. So welcome to the club.”

Traffic is light enough that you shoot him a glare. Sam is ‘coughing’ and Natasha is smirking, while Steve is black to blue-eyed innocence. You roll your eyes back onto the road and sigh in disgust. “Great. I’m on a scavenger hunt with Double-Oh Red Scare, Captain Kidnapper, and Techno Icarus.”

“You willing to go along for the ride now, Patty?” Sam asks.

“Guess so, now that I’m a fugitive too.” You mean for it to be a joke but it comes out dour. Now that ‘fight or flight’ are not your only two options, the adrenaline is fading and you can feel every aching muscle, every throb of pain in your head pulsing steadily worse. The others all fade to quiet which is both a blessing and a curse– less annoying, for sure, but there’s also nothing to distract you, other than the road.

“Do you want me to drive?” Sam offers.

If Sam drives then you’ll be stuck in the back with Steve and you _can’t_. You just can’t. “No,” you say and grip the wheel so tight your hands hurt. It’s all you can do right now to consciously keep a measured weight on the gas rather than press it to the floor. What if all of this is for nothing? What if…

You want to put it into words, maybe make a joke to lighten it and piss off Captain “Can’t Keep a Fucking Eye on His Own Best Friend” Rogers, but the words don’t come. Your mouth is open though and you can _feel_ Black Widow staring at you. “Um, guess I should…probably ask where we’re heading, though.” Go you, it sounds almost normal.

“Keep going. We’ll get some distance,” she says.

“Cool.” ‘How do you know he’s alive’ still sounds too blunt. ‘He didn’t leave a note, did he?’ is too oblique or, if they get it, inappropriately morbid.

Natasha says your name gently. “Did those two…gentlemen…say anything to you?”

Ooo, points for phrasing. “No,” you say and swallow a lump of tears. ‘Do you think Bucky can handle an evil organization going after him _this_ hard’ is too wordy and dumb. The three musketeers wouldn’t be after him if they thought everything was hunky dory. Unless they just worry too much and everything really is fine.

But what if it’s not.

What if _he’s_ not.

What if you never get to yell at him for the tragically hilarious contradiction of being thoughtless because he thought _too much_?

What if…

Natasha says your name again, firm, and you want to vomit. So you do. In a metaphorical sense.

“What if he’s dead?” you ask, feeling as pained on its release as you would of actual stomach acid. “What if this is a wild goose chase? What if…” You can’t say it again, so you don’t.

They’re silent. Someone leans in, and at first you don’t know who, but it’s Steve who says, “He’s not dead.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I _do_ know that,” he insists. His tone isn’t Captain America and it isn’t Steve Rogers. It’s hard but…kind. You don’t know what to make of it. “Bucky has lived through so much. More than anyone should ever have to, more than anyone else can ever take. If he was dead Hydra would know it. _We_ would know it.”

You’re not sure you believe him. You want to, though. You sniffle and realize that, ugh, you’re crying in front of relative strangers. Trash Panda would mock you forever if he could see you right now, and the thought makes you rub your face almost hard enough to peel skin.

“We’ll talk about it once we all get some rest,” Natasha says. “You were right, before…we haven’t told you anything but we’ve been asking questions nonstop. It’s not fair. So, once we can take a breath, we’ll tell you what we know.”

You wait for her to add about you returning the favor, but it doesn’t come. And for some reason, you don’t care as much about holding back anymore. “Mmkay.”

She nods once. “Pull off on the shoulder and we’ll switch.”

You listen to the rhythmic ticking of the blinker and come to a slow stop in the dirt. You take a moment to get your body in order. Steve takes the opportunity to lean back in next to you and say, “Shotgun.”

It turns out that Steve being his little-shit self is all it takes to make you feel almost normal again and you glare at him. “In your fucking dreams, Flag Boy,” you say and get out of the car.

Before you leave your side you hear Natasha tell him, “If you try to take this seat I will break all your bones and shove you in the trunk,” and you actually smile. She may be fucking scary, but Black Widow is a-okay by you.


	6. “Trouble” or “There’s a Storm Brewin’”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha has a preternatural ability to sense trouble on the horizon. She wishes it didn’t come in handy quite so often.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special Chapter Warnings: Flashback from Natasha’s perspective, only slight mention of reader character at the end
> 
> A/N: This chapter takes place in the timeline just a week or so before the events of the first chapter, so Bucky has been with the Avengers for almost a year. Phew. I was a little worried but this chapter turned out much better than I thought it would. I <3 Natasha and I <3 Avengers as protective family unit.

  


Natasha thinks of herself as a practical person with a sentimental streak. Sometimes the sentimentality is unfortunate and sometimes it’s the practicality that she regrets– naturally, the two don’t always play well together. Regardless, they are two major parts of herself, and so she works with them.

Leaving the KGB had been a logistical nightmare, but it had felt undeniably right. She still knows it was the right thing to do, despite everything she’s been through with Clint, SHIELD, and the Avengers. Even sentimentality and practicality can only go so far, and she trusts her gut above all else.

Which is why, when she wakes on edge with a growing sense of dread, she doesn’t ignore it. She acts like anything in the room is a threat and checks the corners as much as she can. “Jarvis; curtains, lights,” she says, bracing herself for the sudden burst of light. But even in complete illumination there’s still nothing and she allows herself a deep centering breath. Despite the seeming safety, the feeling doesn’t leave, so she ties her hair back and gets out of bed.

“Good morning Agent Romanoff,” Jarvis says as she pads into the bathroom and does a quick sweep there. “Sir is entertaining visitors on the main floor– Director Coulson and Deputy Director Westcott. Your and Agent Barton’s presences are, apparently, highly requested.”

Natasha spits out toothpaste and scowls into the mirror. “‘Apparently’?” she repeats. At least, knowing that, she can settle somewhat. Though to be honest she’d rather take on five assassins in her own bedroom than have to deal with Westcott first thing in the morning.

“Deputy Director Westcott has made it known. However Sir, Captain Rogers, and Director Coulson have not requested anything of the sort.”

Natasha finishes in the bathroom and walks quickly to her closet, stopping by her phone to text Clint ‘Get your ass moving. Hall in 3.’ She picks out a suitably imposing outfit in all black, and a pair of well-worn combat boots. It’s something she’d reasonably wear around the tower, but nothing so soft. “Who else is there?” she asks as she changes.

“Mr. Wilson and Dr. Banner. Ms. Potts and Ms. Hill are in a meeting and will come as soon as they can,” Jarvis replies.

“Barnes?”

“Not present.”

Natasha frowns but she doesn’t take the time to parse that answer. She steps out of her room just before Clint comes out of his, looking ruffled and disgruntled. He’s not in his pajamas, though, so she’ll take it. “What, you don’t want to keep him waiting?” Clint gripes but falls in step next to her.

“Something is wrong,” she says.

Clint becomes her partner in a span of two seconds, standing taller and matching her walk with longer, self-assured strides. “What is it?” he asks lowly.

“I don’t know yet,” she says as they step into the elevator. The ride is tense, but Natasha slips Clint a knife and he stops fidgeting, at least. She calls him an idiot and he smiles, but when the door opens they’re both all business.

Natasha takes stock of the room and its participants. Coulson is standing just behind and to the side of Westcott while Stark and Rogers present a unified front on the other side. It’s only slightly surprising– Steve’s respect for authority can be lost much more easily than it can be earned and there are few things Tony loves more than sticking it to The Man. Bruce and Sam are sitting at the counter, ostensibly having breakfast, however Bruce stares resolutely at one point on the newspaper and Sam sips his coffee, giving the interaction his full attention. As Natasha and Clint enter the space proper, Sam’s mouth sets in a straight line and Bruce looks at them with worry.

It’s shit, essentially, and if Natasha gets through this morning without witnessing or causing any bloodshed she’ll consider the day a success.

“Agent Romanoff. Agent Barton,” Westcott says and turns to face them. Andrew Richard Westcott is the personification of a sniveling government tool. At first glance he looks imposing– grey dusted hair and tall and stocky build, he seems the type to have done work in the field, but he flinches too quickly and his back bows too easily. He does his best to be utterly infuriating at every turn, however Natasha has been on the wrong side of the worst sort of people for almost her entire life. The fact that he still tries to intimidate her is amusing at best and, sure enough, she stares him right in the eyes until he looks away first. The briefest smile graces Coulson’s face and is gone before anyone else notices.

After the near-fall of SHIELD, failsafes had been activated at every level to avoid a complete meltdown of the agency, with Coulson being pulled in to take over and put out the fires. Still, a major government organization with such a severe breach meant someone had to pay, and with the ‘death’ of Fury (and the very real death of Pierce) there was no one left to hang for the court of public opinion. So SHIELD itself became the scapegoat. Dismantling it entirely was discussed but it was decided SHIELD was well enough even after the purge to remain running. Hydra infiltrators were named and hunted down and while other names were cleared, there was formed a ‘temporary’ safeguard called the ‘United States Security Council’.

(Natasha still smiles at the fact that Clint, somehow, _almost_ slipped the ‘United States Security Referendum’ right under their noses.)

The Council is made up of representatives from several other agencies including the FBI, CIA, DHS, NSA, and every branch of military. Coulson, in one of his darker moods, had smiled wryly and referred to it as ‘Project Oversight’. Steve would swear up and down he hadn’t laughed, but he would be lying.

Steve isn’t smiling now, still focusing his attention on Westcott, current acting director of a bureau that thinks it has more power than it does. Still, as active SHIELD agents Natasha and Clint are supposed to play nice and so she does. Mostly.

“Deputy Director,” Natasha says politely, mood lightening at the sour look on his face at his full, official title.

“It’s nice of you both to finally join us,” Westcott says stiffly.

“Imagine our surprise to walk out of the elevator and see you here,” Clint says cheerfully.

Westcott shoots a glare at Tony, who shrugs. “Sorry but Chateau Stark doesn’t offer a wake-up service.”

“Is there a problem?” Natasha asks, looking at Coulson.

“The Winter Soldier is AWOL,” Westcott snaps.

Natasha looks at him sharply, and then at Steve, who is _blatantly_ irritated. “He is _not_ ,” Steve says and looks at Natasha and Clint. “He’s still on mission.”

“And hasn’t checked in,” Westcott interjects.

“He’s not scheduled to yet,” Steve says. It’s bullshit, but Natasha keeps a straight face.

Unfortunately Westcott isn’t a _complete_ idiot. “He is still a dangerous Hydra defector–”

Steve tries to cut in. “–He was cleared and taken off probation weeks ago–”

“Enough!” Westcott shouts. The room hums with tension and anger that buzzes under Natasha’s skin, sets her on edge to prepare to do whatever is necessary to eliminate the threat. Coulson catches her eye and stares at her, keeping eye contact and softening minutely as seconds pass, signaling her to do the same. It doesn’t fix the issue, but it helps her calm down somewhat.

As much as she’s tired of attending fake funerals, she’d rather have the people she cares about back rather than not. That’s both sentimental _and_ practical– the best sort.

“Agent Barton, Agent Romanoff,” Westcott says and they both snap to attention. “Your skills are being commandeered for the time being for the USSC to track down the Winter Soldier, aka James Buchanan Barnes.”

Steve looks like he could use some of Coulson’s come-down techniques. Natasha’s surprised he doesn’t correct Westcott, but she doesn’t bring it up. Instead she looks to Coulson, who inclines his head to one side– and Westcott moves to block him from her view.

“Given that Barnes isn’t in the employ of dear Uncle Sam, what are you bringing him in on?” Tony asks and leans on the counter. “Tempestuous one-night affair with a dignitary’s daughter that’s going to cause an international affair? Poking a vocal congressman in the nose…come on. Give us the deets.”

“There is no warrant for the W–” Steve’s dark expression apparently rattles Westcott enough, because he clears his throat and says, “–for _Sergeant Barnes’_ arrest,” through gritted teeth.

“Then why are you going after him?” Clint asks, crossing his arms. “Sorry– why do you want _us_ to go after him?”

Westcott presses his lips into a thin line and straightens his jacket. “The details are classified. We believe Sergeant Barnes has found information of significance to our ongoing investigation into Hydra. You’ll be accompanied by USSC agents, and report to…”

Natasha tunes him out before she gets too angry. She’s used to being treated as a mobile weapon, to some extent, but since Fury, and now Coulson, she hasn’t been treated so much like an object since the Red Room. And it infuriates her. And with strange handlers _on_ the mission? Coulson isn’t happy but SHIELD is still under a microscope since the Hydra fall out and he can’t lie out on the line; too much else rests on him. That and she just doesn’t want him to.

“You can’t just take ownership of them,” Steve interrupts. He’s standing near Natasha now, slightly in front but not blocking her view. “They’re Avengers, not USSC agents.”

“They’re SHIELD agents and SHIELD falls under the purview of the USSC,” Westcott says.

“They’re not your property. You can’t treat them like they don’t have a choice,” Steve insists.

Westcott scoffs. “They’re high-ranking agents receiving paychecks and pensions to match. This is _hardly_ slavery.”

Both Steve and Tony are bubbling with badly suppressed anger. At any other time it would be amusing and, perhaps, a little touching to see them on the same side of an argument, but this isn’t getting anyone anywhere.

Thankfully, Clint diffuses the tension with a heavy sigh. “And such a nice pension it was,” he says wistfully.

The room goes utterly silent.

Natasha could kiss him.

“What?” Westcott asks. Coulson wears his smile in his eyes but otherwise is bland business as usual.

“Our pensions. I’m gonna miss mine,” Clint says and looks sadly at Natasha.

She shrugs. “We wouldn’t have lived long enough to collect on it.” She affects contemplation. “Maybe retiring isn’t such a bad idea.”

Westcott is utterly baffled. He looks to Coulson, who shrugs with as little concern as Natasha had. “At-will employment,” he says as though he’s sorry. “I knew it would happen one day. It’s hard to compete with the Avengers.”

“I can totally talk to Pepper about pensions,” Tony says, almost gleefully.

Westcott is almost vibrating with rage. “You–” He starts and stops. Natasha waits for all the threats to follow– jail time, litigation, other coding for ‘obey or else’. Curiously, nothing comes. He glares at her and Clint and says, “You are both suspended from action until further notice.”He looks to Tony and Steve. “And if I hear of the Avengers interfering in this investigation I will bring hell upon your heads.” With that, he storms off.

It’s a lot like watching an angry kitten hiss impudently. Natasha honestly almost feels sorry for him as the elevator doors close a little too quickly and he is swept away.

“Whew,” Sam says and shakes his head. “ _That_ was the best show I’ve seen in months. Think he’ll do repeat performances?”

“God I hope not,” Steve mutters.

“What’s going on?” Natasha asks. Steve looks uncomfortably over at Coulson, who bears his best enigmatic smile.

“Deputy Director Westcott and the USSC are looking to contact Sergeant Barnes in regards to a stockpile of Hydra information that may have been located in a base he recently…expunged,” Coulson says. He straightens his tie. “No charges have been leveled and no order to apprehend has been ordered. Officially. Westcott is merely concerned.”

“Concerned,” Clint repeats flatly.

“Information suggests that Hydra units are organizing to go after Barnes and whatever it is he may have found. That’s all we know.” Coulson checks his watch. “I should be going.” As he walks towards the elevator he stops by Natasha. “Enjoy your vacation,” he says with the smallest wink, and leaves.

“Shit,” Clint says and immediately goes over to grab a mug of coffee.

“Steve,” Natasha says and stares him down.

“Bucky went off the grid,” Steve says, leaning back against the counter as Clint comes back with a mug for Natasha. “He left a message warning me something like this would happen, but I had no idea about the Hydra amassing until Westcott and Coulson came in this morning.”

“How did they find out so fast?” Sam asks.

“SHIELD wasn’t the only agency associated with the USSC that went through some downsizing when Hydra got pulled out of the woodwork,” Clint says and pauses to take a large gulp of his steaming hot coffee. “The USSC keeps a close eye on Hydra, probably by utilizing Hydra. They get to look like they keep their noses clean and the neo-Nazi bastards get to carry on.”

“Is Westcott Hydra?” Steve asks.

“Maybe, maybe not.” Clint shrugs. “There’s nothing to say he is, even though he’s definitely not lily white. More than likely he wants to keep his position and keep his own area looking as clean as he can. If there’s proof to show the other bureaus were just as infested, there’s no reason for Project Oversight to continue on.”

Natasha’s coffee is cool enough to sip and she focuses on the initial bite, the following smooth, rich wash of caffeine as it rolls through her mouth and down her throat. She takes a long breath and exhales. “What exactly did Barnes say?”

“Um…” Steve pauses. “‘Give me a day; going dark. Don’t tell _anyone_.’ That was maybe twelve hours ago. I tried contacting him when I knew Westcott was on his way but every number goes right to voicemail or disconnects.”

“I’m working on tracking them but the GPS is almost nonexistent,” Tony says. “Easy money says he destroyed the phones.”

Natasha snorts. It’s not even a question. But suddenly Steve’s phone buzzes and he scrambles to get it out. He reads the message and frowns, and his eyes skim over it again. Natasha sets her cup down. “Steve?”

He rushes out of the room and almost everyone scrambles to follow. Natasha, Clint, and Sam are the first to their feet and Tony mutters a curse as he’s distracted by the coffee he’s spilled all over himself. Natasha is right behind Steve as he goes to Bucky’s room and rifles in a bedside drawer. A drawer that has a false bottom, she realizes, as he wrestles out a notebook and flips through it.

“What is it?” she asks.

He shows her the writing scrawled in the bottom corner of the page, with a few words, a name, and an address.

“Taxi Up?” Clint’s eyebrows rise as he reads it over Natasha’s shoulder. “He wants us to move out?”

“He wants me to move out,” Steve says, rips out the paper and stands.

“You’re not going alone,” Natasha says and glances at Sam. “And we’ve done this before.”

“Aw man,” Tony whines from the speakers.

“Seconded,” Clint says.

“Someone has to hold down the fort and the smaller the team, the better,” Steve says and nods at Natasha and Sam. “Get ready. We’ll go as soon as we can.”

“All right. Let me see where we’re heading,” Sam says and reads. ‘Taxi up’ is followed by your first name and address, which is followed by… “‘OAO?’ Seriously?”

“What?” Steve asks and snatches the paper back. He stares at it and looks…confused. Concerned. Perhaps even annoyed. Natasha can’t keep up with all the emotions and even Sam is staring at him.

“Uh, yeah. ‘Over and out,’ Clint says blithely and Steve blinks. Clint shakes his head. “He really wrote that on a paper message? Bucky is such a goddamned nerd. We’ve got to get him back home.”

Steve looks almost shaken but he quickly gathers himself and folds up the paper. “Right. Over and out then,” he says, steeling himself behind a wall. Natasha tucks the information away for later, because Clint is right. They have to bring Bucky home.


	7. “Common Ground” or “Sharing is Caring”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You all swap stories and realize that Bucky is an unintentional jerk. You and Captain Rogers butt heads. That...doesn’t go well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special Chapter Warnings: Li’l angsty (bear with me)
> 
> A/N: I feel like I’m kinda rolling now. Fun stuff ahead! >:)

 

 

“So.” You fold your legs up under you. The couch is actually quite comfy, despite looking like it’s about to bust a spring. You were all in a crappy motel the night before and while, miracle of miracles, they had given you some space to decompress after Hydra’s surprise office party, you’re much more grateful to have some actual physical space tonight. Natasha has found a house for you all to squat in and it’s nice. Well-lived in but two stories, mostly clean, and enough seating arrangements that you don’t have to sit right next to anybody. After the car, the motel, and the car again, this alone is a godsend. “Tr– er, Bucky, is being chased by Hydra, the US government, _and_ you guys?” At Sam’s nod you shake your head. “Poor bastard.”

“No doubt,” Sam says. “I wouldn’t worry so much about Westcott’s people. Hydra, though– that’s a different story.”

“You don’t say?” You’ll get dizzy if you give that the eyeroll it deserves. You look from Sam, to Steve, to Natasha. You settle there and she gives you a slight nod.

“Hydra is, as you’ve noticed, trying to take you alive,” she says. “We’re in communication blackout right now– nothing in or out except in case of an absolute emergency– so we can’t intercept them to find out why.”

You’re not ready to go there. Not yet. “If they’re trying not to kill me for whatever reason then why did they go “Scarface” on my apartment? Why fake my death?”

“For the first–” Natasha points at Steve and, yeah, okay; ‘nuff said. “And for the second, there are actually a few reasons that could work in their favor. It isolates you from anyone you’ve known. If you try to pop up asking for help, people would ask questions, draw attention, and they could find you more easily. Or…they did it to force a reaction out of Bucky.”

You sigh. “So they think I can help them find him.”

“Or they think they can use you to get him to go to them.” Natasha says. Well, at least you didn’t have to bring it up. It’s so dumb. And infuriating.

“How well do you know Bucky?” Sam asks.

“Not…” You stop. Here it is then. “I met the guy almost…almost two years ago? A little less, maybe. He was sitting outside of the dumpsters near my building and he looked sad and I sort of…felt bad for him. I fed him and then, like the fucking raccoon he is, I couldn’t get rid of him.” You huff, trying to glaze over the memories with irritation. They sting a little less, but sting they still do. “He came and went when he wanted but he was there for maybe…half a year, or something like that. Then he left and just…never came back.” You look at them and you don’t know if you’re out of it or if their poker faces are just that good, but you can’t read them at all. You don’t bother trying.

“When did you find out who he really was?” Steve asks. He’s quiet and serious and doesn’t give you anything other than a severe stare.

“About a month in. He, uh, told me,” you say. They all look incredulous. “Hey, I have better things to do than watch the news. Even _he_ was reluctant about it and he was all they’d talk about, with the trials and the debates and all that. He kept an eye on it though and one day he sat me down and said I needed to know who I let in my home.”

They’re silent. “And then?” Steve prompts.

“And then what?” you ask. “I told you he stuck around for, like, six months.”

“You were okay with that?” Sam asks.

“When I let him into my home he was a guy who slept by the dumpsters at night, looked super fucking intimidating even despite how dumb the residual war paint looked, and even not knowing anything about him beyond the fact that I thought he might have had a knife I _still_ let him sleep on my couch.” You shrug. “Knowing about Hydra made him make more sense.” The times late at night when you went out to get a drink and saw him walking off a nightmare; the dead look in his eyes when he would stare in the distance; the warning he gave you that if someone started listing seemingly nonsensical words then you needed to run like hell was coming at your heels. Because it would. “He didn’t hurt me or anyone else around us in that month. Even when he saw a guy whaling in his girlfriend in the parking lot he went up, grabbed him by the hand, and took him off to talk. The lady never had a problem with him again. Bucky’s a good guy and he never made me feel like he would hurt me. That was good enough for me.”

Steve inhales and looks away, and you try not to look at him. It’s more emotion than you want to deal with while you’re already dealing with your own shit. Natasha is thoughtful, not stoic. “That was quite a gamble.”

“It worked for us.” Until it didn’t. You shake off that thought. “He always told me if someone came calling that I should just pretend like I never met him; act like he was never there. He said it was safer for both of us. I promised. I…” You open your arms and then let them drop. “So much for that.”

“I think he’ll be fine with the exception,” Sam says.

“We’ll see,” you mutter. That’s a more hopeful thought than you have the energy for.

“Why did he leave?” Steve asks.

Anger rises up like vomit. Oh, wait, that might actually be vomit. Shit. You give yourself a second to let the rage pass. It might be a hell of a deterrent but throwing up is hardly the evolutionary self-defense mechanism you would have chosen for yourself. “Fuck if I know,” you say and cross your arms and hunch over, because you’re cold and fuck them and everything they stand for. Everything you couldn’t give him. But Natasha stares you down, so you relent. “To be fair, I knew it would happen eventually. Once all the ‘Winter Solder’ bullshit had mostly faded he still kept an eye on everything Avengers; he kept muttering about a big blonde idiot who can’t watch his fucking back. Some months after he left I saw him pop up with you guys. And that’s all she wrote.”

“When was the last time you were in contact?”

Fucking seriously? You take another deep breath because you don’t want ‘beating the snot out of a national icon’ to be the reason you end up in Avenger Jail. Or, more likely, you don’t want ‘trying to beat the snot out of a national icon’ to be the reason you end up in the hospital.

“Look,” you say through gritted teeth. You try to relax. “I haven’t talked to the guy since the last time he was in my apartment. That was over a fucking year ago, okay? He went, made good, and lost my number. Whatever.” Bitter? Not you. Sure the guy crashed on your couch but you had always told him he didn’t owe you anything. He really took it to heart, apparently.

“That doesn’t make any sense.” Steve is frowning. “He sent us to you.”

You blink.

That…

You blink again. A few times. But no, you’re still here, in this room, with these morons.

“He what?” you ask slowly, because that can’t really be what Steve said.

“It’s true.” Sam rubs at the scruff growing on his chin and gives Steve the briefest of glances. “Tell her.”

Steve shakes his head. You’re going to shake _him_ but, thankfully, he speaks on his own. “After Westcott made his threats I got a message from Bucky directing me to a book in his room, and a message written on the bottom of a random page. It had your name and address.”

That fucker is giving you whiplash. Threatening Hydra agents, sending his friends to you; if everyone else knows where you live and that he maybe stayed there then would it have killed the asshole to send _one_ letter, make _one_ fucking phone call?

Steve scratches his head. “But if he hadn’t contacted you in all that time…why would he send us to you? I don’t get it.”

Join the fucking club asshole.

“I do.”

You, Sam, and Steve all look to Natasha. “It wasn’t about you helping us,” she says looking right at, into, you. “It was about us helping you.”

No.

 _No_.

“Why the fuck would he CARE?!” You jump up, full up with anger and sadness and annoyance and _how fucking dare he act like he has the right_. You try to pace off the angry energy but it isn’t working; it just keeps bubbling over like an overfilled pot. “I’m just some bitch whose couch he bummed on sometimes. Why does he–” You bite hard on your lip to hold back, ‘ _Why does he keep trying to PROTECT ME?!_ ’ because if this is some misguided attempt at being a polite and chivalrous gentleman then you are going to _end_ him with your bare fucking hands.

“Maybe he cares more than he let on,” Sam says. But he’s looking at Steve, who’s staring at the table.

“He probably feels responsible for her being targeted by Hydra,” Steve says, stiff and unmoving.

“I’m getting the feeling there might be more to it than that,” Sam says and looks at Natasha. “O.A.O?”

It takes a second but then Natasha raises an eyebrow. “A bit sappy for Barnes, don’t you think?”

Confusion cuts through the anger. Just a little bit.

“If he wanted to keep it ambiguously coded he’d have to be,” Sam says. “But that was the message. The reason he sent us there.”

“No,” Steve says. He shakes his head. “It’s not possible.”

“What does ‘O.A.O.’ mean?” you ask.

“‘Over and out’,” Steve says way too quickly for it to be anything other than bullshit.

“That’s not the only thing it can mean and you know it,” Sam says, quiet but firm, like he’s just going to have to insist the point.

You’re not comfortable with the connotations, the way Sam and Natasha are looking at you anew, but before you can try and back off this branch of thinking, Steve decides to cut the whole fucking tree down and his entire arm pulses with the force of his clenched fist. “If there was anything to it, if she meant _anything_ to him, don’t you think he would have mentioned her to us _at least_ once?!” he snaps.

You…

You’re done.

You’re fucking done.

You whirl and go for the stairs. Is there anything up there? Who cares, you don’t; all you care about is being somewhere that Fuckface Rogers is _not_. Natasha moves like she’s going to block you and you seriously contemplate death by thinking of shoving her out of the way. “I need space,” you grit out. Thankfully she sidesteps.

But Steve, fucking _Steve_ can’t leave well enough alone and says your name once, twice, thrice. Then he’s right behind you just as you reach for the railing. “I didn’t mean it like–”

He puts his hand on top of yours resting on the banister and you feel your sanity snap like a rubber band. You swing around with your dominant hand clenched into a fist and you’re so detached from yourself you don’t even see yourself punch him– the next thing you know his head is turned to the side, completely unblemished, while you pant and your hand throbs but he just stands there as still as the goddamn stone he’s made of.

“Go fuck yourself you miserable son of a bitch,” you spit and run up the stairs so fast you slip near the top and bang your leg, only to scramble back up and throw yourself into the first room with a door.

 

You don’t know how long you sit leaning against the wall. It must be long enough, though, because you’re starting to slump and when someone knocks you brace yourself for Steve without feeling like you actively want to murder him. Hooray for tolerance.

Sam is the one that says your name and turns the handle, but he doesn’t push the door open. “Can I come in?”

You make a little sound like “meh” and he enters. “I’ll go ahead and take that for a ‘yes’.” He sits cross-legged in front of you with a white box. “Can I take a look at your hand?”

You blink and bring up both hands to figure out why– oh. Your main hand is curled in a light fist with red knuckles and it hurts to open up. The dull throb intensifies as you try to flatten your fingers. There are still indents of your nails in your palm.

“Let’s see if anything’s broken,” Sam says and takes your hand. You wince and flinch as he goes through the fingers but you’re too exhausted to do much else.

As he moves on to clean and bandage the little bits of raw skin, (seriously, what the hell is Steve Rogers made of), you sigh. “Sorry I left you guys with Major Bad Attitude.”

Sam snorts and smiles up at you. “Is ‘Captain’ getting too easy?”

“Nah,” you mutter and rest your temple on your bent knees. “I think I’m leading this one.”

Sam shakes his head, finishes wrapping you up, and scoots to sit next to you. “I don’t think it was unjustified. There’s a difference between when you and Steve snipe at each other in the car, and what he said back there. That was wrong. And if it helps any, he feels really bad about it.”

You think about it and all you can picture are earnest blue eyes. You press your face into your knees. “It doesn’t. He isn’t going to be all sappy and sincere about it, is he?”

“I don’t think so. He’s mad.” At your sharp look Sam waves a hand. “Not at you. At Bucky.”

“Oh.” That’s actually something you can agree with him on. “Yeah. Bucky’s an asshole.”

Sam chuckles. “Your asshole though?”

“No,” you say, a little bit of that anger coming back. It’s a quiet anger, though. You’re tired. “Maybe it could have been but…well, apparently not.” You swallow a lump of something. “He left.”

Sam is quiet too. Even when he says, “Maybe he thought it was for the best.”

And maybe you still want to hurl. You hug your knees tight and Sam rests a hand on your back. “Hey; we’re all staying downstairs but the couch is yours if you want it.”

You don’t, but you follow Sam back down. Steve and Natasha aren’t there and it’s desperation to avoid them that makes you fall onto the cushions, curl up, and will yourself to sleep.


	8. “Home is Where the Heart Is” or “Trash Panda II: The Domestic Adventures of a Trash Pand-assassin”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky tries settling in to the domestic life (mostly) but there’s something missing and you know he can’t get it with you.
> 
> “If you love someone, let them go.”
> 
> What a bunch of bullshit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special Chapter Warnings: Angsty, maybe bittersweet, flashback chapter
> 
> A/N: This is a flashback chapter that takes place maybe six or seven months after chapter two. It’ll explain itself, I think. Anywho. I wanted to post this chapter tomorrow but I’m not gonna have a chance, so here it is, a little earlier than I expected. Sort of off-topic but also on it: I have been listening to almost nothing but “Sakura Blues” by blessthefall and “Molecules” by Hayley Kiyoko so if you know either of those songs you sort of know what you’re in for with this chapter. To everyone else: that means ‘sorry’. Hang in there, Reader.

 

It’s cold as fuck and Bucky has the window open _again_. You go to shut it, stomping your feet and sighing as loudly as you can, but when you turn to look at Bucky he remains as he is– stretched across the couch, lying on his stomach, and watching TV. He’s so relaxed that you’re surprised he bothers to smile at you.

“How can you stand it? It’s fucking freezing in here,” you say and go to pluck the blue blanket off the back of the couch, wrapping up like you’re Golde. If you were a rich woman, indeed.

“It’s not bad,” he says, looking back at the TV.

You roll your eyes and go stand in front of the TV. “Yeah, yeah, Captain Angstbucket, I get it; not as bad as you're used to.”

“Not a captain,” he says, staring at your legs like you’re not in his way.

“Fine, _Sergeant_ Angstbucket.” He looks like a limp noodle, sinking into the cushions and his elbow hanging over the couch is almost dragging his hand out from where it’s stuffed under the pillow. You’re not sure even a nuclear attack could move him now. Still. “You’re hogging the couch.”

“You’re blocking the TV.”

“I wouldn’t be if I had a place to sit. Now _scoot_.”

He doesn’t do much more than lift his eyes to stare at you. Honestly, you both know you’re not going to win this, but like hell you’re going to just concede the comfiest piece of furniture you own to this asshole.

So you walk up and sit. On his back. You feel a little afraid of crossing an unknown line– triggering something or having him ask you what the hell you think you’re doing. He doesn’t so much as grunt which, nice, but also underwhelming. You’re tempted to bounce when he suddenly says, “Try it and I’ll dump you on the coffee table headfirst.”

“How do you do that?” you ask because that is some freaky shit.

“I know you.”

You grumble unkind things because that’s bullshit, he can’t know you _that_ well. But he doesn’t move, doesn’t demand you get off, and it’s weird because you’re literally sitting on the guy’s back but it’s also kind of…nice. That just makes it weirder, honestly. “Are you suffocating yet?”

He chuckles. “You aren’t _that_ heavy.”

You glare at him and really seriously reconsider bouncing. Hearing him choke might be worth the pile driver into the wooden table. You sigh and decide to be the bigger (ugh) woman and let it go. Mostly.

“What are you doing?” Bucky asks as you mimic his position. On top of him. After a moment of consideration you scoot down his body so that your head rests in between his shoulder blades rather than right on his floppy hair.

“Redistributing my weight. Don’t wanna get to be _too_ heavy.” Okay so maybe you’re a _little_ petty. You snuggle into him and grin when he squirms just slightly. Payback achieved. “Anyways, I had to do something since you decided to go and replace my couch cushions. You do make an awfully comfortable replacement.”

“Really,” he says in a tone so dry he’s practically spitting out grains of sand.

“Mm hm.” You’re not going to tell him how comfortable. He’s nice and warm too. “Maybe I’ll use you for the couch from now on.”

“And what would you do when I’m not here?” he asks.

“Lounge in bed.” You shrug. “It’s kind of nice when you take off sometimes, actually; I like getting to eat my chips before you can get your grubby fingers on ‘em.”

“That so?”

“Yup.”

“You probably should have finished off that last bag then.”

You gasp and lean over the edge to see your brand new, brand name chip bag on the floor, completely empty. That rat bastard; you had barely gotten through a third of it before he got home. You punch him. “You dick!”

The jerk just laughs and you huff and hide a smile into his back where he can’t see. Just because you like hearing him happy does not mean you want to encourage his awful, awful behavior, so you let out a disgusted sigh as you settle. “What are we watching?”

He lifts his shoulders in a light motion that doesn’t really bother you. “News.”

“Hm.” It’s Avengers stuff. Again. Captain America is on the camera saying something you can’t make out with the volume as low as it is. Freedom, bald eagles, blah blah blah. You wish Iron Man or Hawkeye were around; they like to fuck with the news anchors and it can get pretty hilarious. That’s probably why they’re not anywhere on screen. But Captain America is so grave, so…dour. “Does he always look so miserable?”

Bucky is quiet for a moment and then, barely breaking the silence, he says, “He didn’t use to.”

You turn your face down and let him keep watching in peace. It’s not the first time he’s gotten wistful looking at his old friend and you doubt it’ll be the last. Fuck if you know what to do about it though; any suggestions to write a letter or make a phone call are immediately shot down. At first he used to scoff or make excuses, but now he doesn’t even bother. Just turns his head or changes the subject or goes to do something else.

You wonder if he’ll wait for the end of the weekend before he leaves again, or if this is going to spur him out the door tomorrow. He’s been leaving for longer and longer these days, going on Monday before you’re off to work and coming home on Thursday, Friday, even Saturday. Where he goes and what he does you’ve never asked, because you’ve been able to figure it out just fine. Sometimes the Hydra bases getting swarmed over by law enforcement make the news and sometimes it’s all quiet, but he always comes back with scrapes or bruises or bloodied clothes. Sometimes he’s satisfied and sometimes he’s muttering curses in a slew of other languages.

Whether he’s momentarily lifted or not, he always ends up like this– watching every scrap of news, reading every article or interview, cataloguing everything to do with the Avengers, with Steve Rogers. After a day or two he gets restless and goes out. And so the cycle repeats, ad infinitum.

“You ever think of dropping in on him for a surprise sleepover?” You lightly lift strands of his hair. “He could even braid your hair for you.”

“Shut up,” he mutters without any real acrimony, and you don’t want to fight, so you leave it there and shut your eyes.

When you open them again the TV is off and the early morning chill is freezing your back. You pull the blanket up just a little more and under you, the bed shifts.

“You finally awake?”

Oh shit. Not bed. Bucky. Shit. Well shit.

“Why didn’t you throw me off?” You wipe your mouth just in case. Phew, nothing. “That can’t have been comfortable.”

“It was, actually.” He shrugs and the motion lifts you. “You’re warm.”

“Oh. Well.” You sit up and slide off of him. “Carry on then.”

He stays through the morning, though he grumbles about having to make breakfast even though…something something something. You’re just waiting for the food, honestly; you don’t really care about his bitching. Except in one area.

“I do _not_ drool.”

He snorts. “My shirt says otherwise.”

You get out of your chair, walk behind him, feel the fabric where you rested your head– bone dry, of _course_ – and you rub it against his back. “Doesn’t feel wet to me.”

He grumbles as you take a plate back to your seat and snatch a victorious bite of your breakfast. It occurs to you that you should probably ask before touching him so much, but he hasn’t actually freaked out in a while and since he’s not saying anything about it now you decide not to rock the boat. Besides, you used him for a bed last night, and normally if he has protests, he will lodge them. Quickly and plainly.

But he doesn’t. He sits down with his own plate at the small table and you both eat. It’s quiet but not awkward, and for the moment you let yourself feel at home.

That night he doesn’t leave under cover of darkness. He packs and gets out the door before you go to bed, with a warning to “stay safe and don’t take in any other former assassins you just don’t have the room.” You flip him off and tell him to get bent but when he leaves you find yourself wishing you had told him to stay safe like a normal human being would.

He comes back later that week, and at night you’re laying on his back again, because it doesn’t mean anything, really, it’s just two people being comfortable and sharing the best blanket in the house. Of course, then news reports of Captain America getting hurt have him frothing at the mouth. You ask if there’s anything you can do to help him sneak into the hospital where Captain America is, because you looked it up for him and here’s the address just go weep at his bedside already and get it over with. He glares at you, picks up his bag, and starts to go without a word. But when he stops at the doorway to collect himself, you walk forward and give him a hug.

“Be safe or else. I got that stupid pizza you like so you better be back to eat it.”

He still says nothing, but he puts his hand on your arm and gives it a little squeeze.

When he comes back a few days later he’s even quieter and splashed with blood, but he’s subdued like he’s satisfied. When you see him pull out one of his undershirts, completely soaked red and with a large tear in the side, you almost start crying, though for the life of you, you can’t explain why. Except that, maybe you can, you just really don’t want to.

Later he’s lying on his back this time, just resting in the middle of a quiet day, and you approach with plenty of time for him to tell you to fuck off. He doesn’t, despite how slowly you move. You lie on top of him– totally platonic, clothed– and he puts his arm around you. Neither of you move for a long while. You don’t know what this is but it’s nice, and you wish you could see it through.

Of course, the Avengers are assholes who are allergic to vacation apparently because they’re a big deal again, and you both end up sitting on the couch, watching the nonsense play out. Captain America is in a building collapse which makes the media lose its fucking mind, only he emerges from the dust having somehow held together a hallway with only his shield, a paperclip, and the good old American way. The media loses its mind again over the plant workers coming out behind him, unharmed, and he limps across the screen.

Bucky snorts. “He’s fine,” he says but he’s staring at the screen intently. Suddenly he points and you look in time to see Black Widow dart across the screen, holding her side. Once she’s out of sight Rogers starts walking more normally and assures everyone he’s fine, that it was just blah blah something. In the background you see Iron Man roll his eyes and you feel him on a spiritual level. Still.

“What a gentleman,” you admit and look at Bucky. He’s still staring at the screen, but he doesn’t look riled. Just pensive. “You okay, Trash Panda?”

“I thought you stopped calling me that,” he says.

“Not a chance.” You’re already sitting right next to him, and what the hell, you lean in closer. He doesn’t stiffen up or pull away. “What’s up?”

“Nothing. Just…remembering.” And that would be enough, except he says, “I shot her.”

It takes you a moment. “Black Widow?”

He nods. “DC and…maybe another time? She was in the way of the Soldier.”

“Oh.” You’re not sure you won't say the wrong thing, but that doesn’t stop you from maybe sticking your foot down your throat. “Wow. She’s pretty tough.”

He huffs a small laugh. “Yeah. She is. I’m…glad she’s all right. She takes care of Rogers.”

His leg is warm against yours, the TV is droning peacefully in the background, and he doesn’t flinch when you touch him. He looks good. Stable, for the most part. So you try to enjoy the moment while you can. It’s not going to last.

“Rogers looked a little frayed on the news today,” you say as you both sit at dinner. “I thought he was finally gonna snap at the reporter.”

Bucky snorfles through his food. “He hates the whole ‘talking to the public’ deal. You can see it every time he’s on camera; looks like he wants to crawl away.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” you say.

“Yeah. I think…” Bucky looks thoughtful. “I think he always did. That USO crap, he hated it.” Bucky rolls his eyes and goes back to his food. “Guess that’s why he decided to get shot at and blown up rather than stay safe. Fucking dumb punk.” You try to acknowledge that but the sound comes out softer than you intended. Bucky slows down his eating to a stop again and stares at you. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you say. Bucky puts his fork down and you make the mistake of looking at him. “It’s not a big deal,” you say and pick at your food. Fuck, this is it, isn’t it? Might as well rip off the Band-Aid. “I really, really think you should go see him. I think you’d be happier if you did.”

Bucky is still and quiet. “You want me to go?”

“No.” Fuck, how much you _don’t_ want him to go, how much you don’t want to see him on the news running after Red, White and Reckless, is something you have to keep close to the vest. It’s too much to unload on a guy who survives life every week like the universe is making him go paycheck to paycheck. “I want…” You scoot closer. “I want you to be okay. I mean, let’s be real, you're such a miserable old bastard that actually being happy is probably a bridge too far.”

He snorts at the half-hearted joke and you manage a small smile. “But…you’re spinning your wheels here. A couple of weeks ago you were ranting about losing a trail, probably because you were focused on coming home on schedule, and just today you looked like you were about to wax poetic about some lady you shot.” You look down at your food. Food can’t stare at you with sad blue eyes. Food wins. “I…don’t want you to feel stuck here. I don’t want you to feel stuck with me just because I gave you a place to stay. You’re not some guy who’d fall in line and get along working the construction sites. You can do more, do something meaningful and good, and I know you want to. Hydra took a lot from you.”

“Everything,” he mutters.

“Not everything,” you say and glance over at the stack of Steve Rogers-related articles and interviews and overdue library books that has been steadily growing on the corner of your counter. You look back at him. Bucky turns his head from the pile to meet your gaze and then he goes back to his dinner. After taking a second to collect yourself, you do the same.

“I thought you were allergic to feelings.”

You snort and lift your head again to look at him. “I can sneeze into your food if it makes you feel better.” You make grabby hands. “Gimme.”

He hunches over his plate like the possessive trash panda he is and it’s so much like that first night that you laugh. And for a while you forget about the conversation; he lightens up and you fall asleep that night in what has become your typical arrangement on the couch. Bucky lies on his back again and you doze off on his warm chest to the innocuous sounds of the TV.

The next night, though, you remember in the worst way possible. You’ve gone through the nightly routine and you’re only a little surprised to half-wake up when Bucky is taking you back to your bed and depositing you under the covers. He’s done this before and you have to work tomorrow. Unlike any other time, though, Bucky leans over you and whispers, “Thank you.”

Your throat closes up. As he walks away you’re more than a little offended because this isn’t supposed to be fly-by-night, this is supposed to be you trying not to get upset at the table at his latest lame excuse for bowing out of doing the dishes and being torn on whether to grab hold of him while telling him not to go or standing at the door and badly quoting “Princess Bride” until you’re sure he won't miss you at all.

But now it’s so quiet and he’s sliding through the darkness like a shadow, ready to exit your life in the same smooth way he entered it, and as you regain control over your vocal cords you seriously consider calling him back and asking him to stay. He would if you asked, you’re fairly sure.

Which is why you keep your mouth shut. Until he’s standing at your door, hand on the frame, hesitating. The nightlight in the kitchen lets you see him, dressed, backpack on and duffle bag over his shoulder. “Stay safe, asshole,” you whisper and as you drift off you think you hear him chuckle.

The morning after is quiet in the way it usually is, but holds a weight it usually doesn’t. You tell yourself it’s situation normal, this is how it always is, just so you can get through the day. The week plods on and at the end of it you prepare dinner as usual, but he doesn’t come home, so it turns into leftovers. The week after that is much the same. And so is the one after that. Eventually you just get used to making extra food on the weekends and it becomes a habit, and time goes on much like it has for the majority of your life that you didn’t host a freeloader.

And then, one day, it happens– ‘Winter Solder’ and ‘Bucky Barnes’ and all the ridiculous variations of his stupid dumb name start trending like crazy as Captain America’s best friend comes back from the dead with the ultimate tale of woe. You spend the next few weeks filling up your shit list with anybody who dares use the term ‘war criminal’ and whitelisting the names and publications with more sympathetic voices.

The fervor dies down and you take up watching the news, just in case. You don’t see him fully because he’s technically ‘recuperating’ and everybody loves to debate whether or not he can, will, or should be on ‘active duty’ again, but after a few times of ‘can that be…?’ you learn what to look for. At one point all the Avengers are framed in the screen but someone out of sight tosses Black Widow a hair tie as she walks through rubble to join her team and she accepts it with a quick, grateful smile. Another time the camera is too far back to see where all the action had happened but in the far distance you see someone cover Dr. Banner with a blanket in typical SHIELD gear but you’re certain you see an exposed patch of their arm glint in the harsh sunlight.

Yet another time, (your favorite), Captain America is making a Very Serious Statement while Hawkeye, Iron Man, and Falcon stand behind him and try not to fidget. Something catches their eyes off-screen and those three barely keep it together, much to the curiosity of the reporters and the consternation of the captain, who shoots such an intense but subtle glare at the troublemaker that you’re shocked you don’t notice it until your third watch-through. You immediately watch it five more times.

He fits in, you think, and that’s good. It doesn’t make everything better, though, because you’re plenty selfish and woman enough to admit it. One miserable night you’re chewing through leftovers in your silent apartment on your cold couch, staring at some late night self-help infomercial where a bunch of old people filmed in the eighties are extolling the virtues of some crackpot’s book.

“It’s like the old saying– if you love them, let them go,” some probably-super-dead old bat says like she’s the wise woman making this up on the spot. “If they come back, they’re yours, and if they don’t, they never were.”

The plate is out of your hands before you know it and even with the messy aftermath to deal with, there’s something satisfying about watching spaghetti slide down her wrinkled, overly made-up face.

“Keep telling yourself that, bitch.” You flick a glob of sauce off the coffee table towards Bargain Tammy Faye. “Maybe one day you’ll believe it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Side-note: I have a semi-coherent idea for where the story is going so I've added the goal end chapter number to the story info. I just wanted to say that may change but that's what it's looking like right now. We'll see!


	9. “Stoking the Home Fire” or “Footwork Impeccable”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony and the others hold down the fort and wait for word to come from the front. Bucky sends word. A lot of word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special Chapter Warnings: Tony/Pepper bein’ cute, only brief mention of Reader
> 
> A/N: This chapter happens in present time but takes place away from our intrepid crew. It’s sort of a smaller plot-necessary update this week, which is good. (I have a sick cat and animal hospitals are as miserable and exhausting as human ones x_x ) Also, some self-indulgence here, but that can accurately summarize just about everything I write.

 

Tony groans and sinks into the first chair he can grab. It’s not bad; this may be a conference room but it’s one of Pepper’s favorites, so the chairs are more comfortable than they have any right to be. He might fall asleep in this one. Might. He busies himself by tugging at his tie. “That’s it; I paid my dues, I’m tapping out. Somebody else can go be the media darling for a while.”

Bruce snorts and Clint laughs. Maria, occupied at her laptop, rolls her eyes but keeps working. Pepper, similarly occupied at the head of the table, actually lifts her eyes. At his plaintive stare she smiles. “Tony, you are not, nor have you ever been, nor are you likely to become, a ‘darling’,” she says and goes back to typing.

“Yeah, I’m more of a pied piper,” Tony says, successfully pulling off the tie and dropping it onto the table.

“Nah, you’re more like a dying cow leading a pack of vultures,” Clint says cheerfully.

Tony glares at him. “Thanks for your support, Barton, and what a way with words you have. Maybe _you_ should head off the press next time.”

“No,” say Bruce, Pepper, and Maria in unison.

Tony grumbles under his breath and looks at Pepper with longing. He leans on the table and reaches for Pepper, swiping and grasping at air. “Peeeeeep…”

“Yes, Tony?” Pepper says patiently, not looking up or slowing in her work.

“I need you.”

“I’m right here, Tony.”

“Yes. All the way over there,” Tony huffs and stops reaching, instead resting his head on his arms. “Why aren’t you over _here_?”

Almost against her will, Pepper’s lips start to turn up. She quickly gains control and smooths them out. There are some behaviors Tony really, really doesn’t need to be encouraged to continue. “You could be over here.”

“But it’s so _far_.”

“You have legs, Tony. Failing that, your chair has wheels.”

Tony grumbles but examines the distance and obstacles. Bruce and Maria are on the other side of the table, up near Pepper, politely and steadfastly ignoring him, respectively. Clint is on his side of the table, staring out of the window and looking like he isn’t paying attention but, well, he’s _Hawkeye_. And if Tony tries scooting around in a desk chair he doubts Clint will be able to let that pass. Because Tony sure as hell wouldn’t.

The beleaguered genius heaves a sigh, stands up, and lumbers up the table to plop down into the seat open next to Pepper. He rests his head on her shoulder and she turns to give him a quick kiss. “Well done.”

Tony quirks a small smile and his eyes track her cursor as she blazes through her work. Still, he sighs. “I never have to do this anymore; why do I have to do this now?”

“Because Steve is busy,” Pepper says.

“Speaking of our illustrious leader…” Tony looks around the room that feels cavernous with the small assembly of people it holds. The absences are like voids in the air itself. “Any word from the hunting party?” Tony lands his sights on Clint. “Carrier pigeon from your bird bro?”

Clint gives him a wry smile but goes back to staring pensively at the skyline. Maria is the one that speaks up. “There won’t be word,” she says, still working. “Not unless there’s trouble.”

“Trouble like their first and only lead getting set on fire?” Tony says and flinches when Pepper shoots him a reproachful glare. “Sorry; may she rest in peace and all that jazz.”

She sighs and shakes her head, already giving up on the issue. “Poor thing. I hope she and Bucky weren’t too close; that’s going to eat him up.”

Clint turns back to the group, frowning. He sits down a few seats from Tony, across from Maria, and puts his feet up on the table. “I hate this part. The…” He waves his hand. “ _Waiting_.”

“You’ve been a sniper on more than one occasion.” Maria casts a look at his boots and then at his face. Clint scrambles to sit properly and she goes back to what she was doing. “You can handle a little waiting.”

“Yeah, just give me a target,” Clint says and throws up his arms. “ _Any_ target.”

“Something tells me you’ll have plenty to shoot very soon,” Maria says, eyes skimming over her screen.

“A lot of ‘something’s, judging by how Hydra is moving,” Bruce says. He’s slowly stirring a packet of sugar into his mug of tea. “It seems Bucky kicked the figurative hornet’s nest.”

“Well he has to have a good reason for taking off,” Tony says but under his breath he adds, “He _better_ have.”

“He did,” Pepper says as certainly as anything she knows. She inhales deeply and smiles at Bruce. “That’s a lovely blend, Bruce.”

“Thanks.” His smile is reserved. “It’s one of my most calming.”

Tony breathes it in. It’s faint but pleasant, and familiar in a way that makes his nose crinkle. It smells nice, so why is he– “Ross,” Tony blurts out. He frowns at Bruce. “That’s your ‘Ross Is Being An Insufferable Fuckmuffin Again’ blend.”

Bruce raises an eyebrow in amusement. “I don’t know if I should ask you what your other names for my specialty tea blends are, or deny all knowledge that you have them.”

Tony waves a hand, because later. “What is he doing? Do I need to call Rhodey? He might have some more favors he can call.”

“No, don’t bother James. General Ross is just…” Bruce shrugs with one shoulder. “…Inquiring after my well-being.” His smile is completely lacking any amusement. “Given these stressful times.”

“Goddamn sharks,” Tony mutters. He looks at Bruce with poorly masked concern. “Do you want a vacation? You need a vacation. I’m pretty sure I have a beach _somewhere_.”

Bruce shakes his head. “No thanks. With Thor off guarding Darcy and Dr. Foster, and Sam, Natasha, and Steve tracking down Bucky, I’m not real keen on being on my own. ‘Blood in the water’ and all that.” He takes a languid sip and exhales. “We can’t easily come together in an emergency and I’m not too eager to be taken in by the US Army, Hydra, or the USSC.”

Tony is all set to suggest moving up to the common floors and start figuring out what they’re going to have for dinner (spoiler: it’s Thai. He has a burning need for chicken satay from that one place just a few blocks over and he will _die_ on this hill if he has to) when Maria lets out a little surprised gasp. It’s tiny; nobody would have noticed if it wasn’t so quiet.

Except.

Maria gasped. Maria Hill –ex-second in command of SHIELD, current director of Stark Industries security, and general badass who can go toe-to-toe with the Black Widow, stare down the former Winter Soldier when he’s at his gloomiest, and make Tony Stark shut up for five minutes– has just involuntarily expressed audible surprise.

There’s a moment where everyone just takes that in. And then there’s a mad scramble to go see what the hell she’s looking at. Bruce abandons his tea and scoots in closer, Clint vaults over the table, Pepper abandons her work, and Tony abandons all sense of dignity as he arrives last and leans down to peer in past shoulders and stray arms to see images popping up all over the laptop screen.

“What is all of this?” Pepper asks. Some of the images look like government documents, some are hand-drawn layouts on stained and faded paper, some are scribbles drawn on napkins, and there’s more. It all keeps coming, too fast to really read.

“Bases,” Maria says, eyes glued to the screen and slowly, continually widening. “But…this can’t be possible; this is a fraction of what Barnes said he was sending and there’s already so much– oh. _Oh_.”

“Oh?” Bruce repeats.

“Not just bases right now. Planned. Abandoned. Past, present, and future,” Clint says, a wild grin on his face. “Bucky won the goddamn fucking _lotto_. This– jackpot doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

“Some of these are coded to hell and back,” Maria says.

“Jarvis can start decrypting them,” Tony says, practically bouncing on his feet.

“All right. Jarvis put as many layers of protection on these as you can. And image capture everything just in case they’re set to corrupt,” Maria says. “Some of these papers probably didn’t survive Barnes taking the photo.”

“Did he say anything?” Tony asks.

“Just to bring everyone in and he’ll be back soo–” Maria smirks so fiercely even Natasha would probably take a step back. “Well _hello_ official government correspondence.”

As all the various department logos pass over the screen Tony and Pepper laugh, Bruce sinks with relief, and Clint crows, “Goodbye Project Oversight! Aw man; enough information to take away Hydra’s cover _and_ Westcott is going away. We should celebrate.”

“After the job is done.” Maria stands and shuts her laptop. “I’m making sure these documents get to where they need to be. Barnes stashed some pockets of what he couldn’t carry so I’ll be out of touch for a while.”

“The jet should be fueled up. Let me know if it isn’t,” Pepper says.

“Thanks boss. I’ll be in contact when I can,” Maria says and is swept away by the elevator.

“Jarvis, this is our priority. Make copies of copies and encrypt the hell out of them,” Tony says and stretches out his back. He feels like he’s gotten a second, third, and fourth wind.

“Yes sir. Should I prepare a decoy for your friends in the NSA?”

Tony has to think about that because it’s awfully tempting to fuck with them extra right now. “Nah,” he decides. “Stick with the usual; we don’t want them knowing we have anything.”

“Very good sir. Are they donating to charity this week or will they be enjoying your selection of explicit video links?”

Tony considers this. The charity thing is a nice touch but he’s done it twice in a row. “Let’s go with the bodysuit porn this time.”

“Yes sir.”

“Tony,” Pepper says in warning but it’s light and she’ll deny it later but she’s totally smiling.

“Pepper,” Tony says and kisses her. For a moment he lingers, disappointed they won't get any time together tonight, but then Pepper pushes him back with a knowing smile and how does she do that?

“Bruce, get in touch with Thor; have him bring his ladies with him.” Tony straightens his shirt. “Totally don’t mention our amazing labs and how nice the living areas are and how much I’d totally be okay with her conducting her research here for a not-small salary.”

“Of course, I will absolutely fail to mention all of that,” Bruce says mildly as he leaves. “I’ll stick around in case Thor needs backup.”

“Good.” Tony turns to Clint. “Guess it’s up to us to get the rest of the party. Let’s go Legolas.”

“I’ll meet you in the garage in thirty, Gimli.” Clint winks and is the next to go.

“Huh.” Tony absently feels over his chin. He nods. “I’ll take it.” But it’s just him and Pepper now. He goes to stand behind her and wraps his arms around her waist, places a kiss on her shoulder. “Dumb question but will you be all right on your own?”

“It is a dumb question,” Pepper agrees. She finishes stacking her devices and turns to give Tony a kiss. “Maria has made an incredibly well-oiled machine that runs smoothly even in her absence. But, if I encounter something I can’t handle, I’ll call you.”

Tony does feel a little better at that, because Pepper is supremely well-adjusted for all the shit she has to deal with and will actually ask for help if she needs it. And while it doesn’t completely erase his worry, it does make it so he’ll be able to get out of the door.

“Go bring them home,” she says and Tony is filled with renewed vigor because _yes_ , he won't ever say it out loud but this is where they all belong (even if Jane is being stubborn about it) and he’d going to help bring his team home.

“Tony?” Pepper says before he gets too far. “Be safe.”

“Don’t worry Pep,” he says and shoots her a smile over his shoulder. “Everything’s finally looking up.”


	10. “Awkward Spaces” or “Gonna Keep Movin’” or “Sam Wilson Is Too Good to Have to Deal with This Shit”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam is the most well-adjusted person in his immediate group of friends and that is terrifying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special Chapter Warnings: Chapter told in present tense with flashbacks to the past in italics
> 
> A/N: This is a chapter set in the present with parts in the past. Tense shifts are also marked with tildes ~Like so~. Sorry if this chapter is weird; this is the first outside POV that has quite a bit of Reader character in it as well so while it is still 2nd person it’s limited on Sam. Fun, interesting, but kind of hard to juggle. Also adding to the mix, I broke format a little bit (sorry Sam) by slipping into the Reader’s POV at the very end because it’s important. Sort of. Mostly? It’s– eh, you’ll see it when you get there. Please enjoy.

 

Sam has seen some shit in his life. Dealt with some severely uncomfortable circumstances over the years, even before he joined the Avengers, even before he started leading group therapy at the VA, even before he shipped out. He’s been in life or death situations, more than he can count, and he’s talked people off the edge– both figurative and literal. People have always commended him for having a cool head under pressure and knowing what to do even if he doesn’t know what to say.

All of that, however, and he still feels insultingly unprepared to deal with the level of awkwardness that comes from a centenarian assassin’s best friend and maybe-girlfriend fighting through silent treatment. Honestly, he’s been through high school, he _should_ be able to handle this.

“Hey, uh…” Steve starts to say. You glance at him and he stops. You both stop. You all stop. Steve scratches his head, mumbles “never mind,” and starts leading the way again.

And _yet_.

“I’m going to scout ahead,” Natasha announces. Sam does _not_ whimper, but Natasha throws a merciless smirk at him and disappears into the bowels of the underground shelter. Sam isn’t sure if you or Steve even notice. Well, Steve probably does, but he shows no sign of caring and neither do you; you both just gravitate to opposite sides of the hallway like repulsed magnets. Sam tries to tell himself that this isn’t any more awkward than that one time Clement and Singh had that little fling that made the whole unit–

Except that it totally is. Clement and Singh were professionals and pissed off so at least the tension got let out in arguments and a truly memorable sparring session. You and Steve though, you dance around each other like you’re trying to figure out how to apologize while waiting for the other person to apologize, both, and goddamn if that isn’t making it even _worse_.

Sam sighs and it’s the loudest noise in the room since Natasha pranced on out of there. It even grabs Steve’s attention. “Anything interesting?” Sam asks like everything is fine and peachy.

Steve frowns and shakes his head. He relaxes a miniscule amount and opens his mouth but his eyes flick to the side, just over Sam’s shoulder, and he clamps it shut again. Sam looks to see you’ve gravitated closer but your attention is on a box you’re poking with your foot. You look up and see Steve. The two of you immediately turn your backs on each other and go in opposite directions.

Sam isn’t sure what he’s done to deserve this but he’s really, really sorry.

 

**~Past~**

_Sam sits on the couch with a plate of breakfast and eats. Slowly._

_On the other end of the couch, James Buchanan Barnes bears the scrutiny of Sam’s sharp gaze. But then, at one point, he squirms. Sam raises both eyebrows but the slight movement might as well have been a trick of the light, for how the ex-assassin stills again. Barnes turns his head and stares ahead at nothing and Sam goes back to his food, keeping his eyes on the other man’s profile._

_“I’m sorry I broke your car.”_

_It’s quiet but Sam hears it. He’s too busy chewing to acknowledge it and he might not even do that even if his mouth wasn’t occupied. Yeah, the car. When Natasha had jumped up front, shoving Steve and Sam away from the bullets aimed at their heads._

_“And tore your wings.”_

_They were good wings; strong, and Barnes had pulled one off like it was paper. Sam sips his juice._

_“And kicked you off the helicarrier.”_

_Where he fell, hurtling through the air and trying to get a hold of himself even as a dark voice whispered in the back of his mind that he deserved this; that this weightless fear was something Riley had to suffer and so should he. But then he had landed and it was so much worse, knowing Steve was up there without backup, and the guilt had piled on when they found him, beat to hell and shot, and Captain America had lain like a man dying. Because he was._

_But Steve’s alive, ultimately, because Barnes broke the programming. And as James Barnes sits in Avengers tower, willingly in the middle of the room where he can be approached on all sides, physically holding himself from fidgeting –or running– Sam has to concede he sees nothing of that murderous machine he had braced himself to face. Barnes looks like he’s been eating better, like he showers and cleans up fairly regularly, and his eyes hold a soul to them that would probably hesitate when told simply to kill. He looks human._

_Sam settles back against the cushion and sets his plate aside. It’s a start._

 

**~Present~**

After some soul searching, Sam has decided that he hasn’t done anything for the universe to have it out for him, but apparently the same cannot be said for Natasha. He’s not sure what he did to her specifically, but he’s fairly certain he doesn’t deserve _this_.

“Go ahead.”

“No, you go. Take the hot water while it’s there; Natasha used up a lot of it.”

“That’s why you should go first.”

“God; I’m trying to be nice. Why are you so fucking stubborn?”

“ _I’m_ stubborn?”

Sam’s eyes roll back into his head and he resists the urge to yell that yes, they both are, and knock it off or so help him God– but he doesn’t, because he knows the kind of reaction that will get and he doesn’t want to deal with your verbal insults or Steve’s ‘how could you do this to me Captain America is sad and disappointed now’ pouting.

So instead he gets up, grabs his towel, and stays long enough in the shower for the water to become lukewarm. Satisfied with his passive-aggressive tactic, he dries off and dresses and comes out to Steve speaking in a low tone. He resolves himself to ignore the both of you until he actually hears you laugh.

“You’re such an asshole,” you say, but you sound delighted.

“Yeah, it was pretty funny,” Steve chuckles.

The hotel room looks the same, yet Sam has to wonder if he has somehow stepped into an alternate universe. He really, really likes this universe and thinks a quick prayer of thanks for the mercy.

“So what did he do?”

“You mean after he did the splits, or during?”

“Both, both!”

“Well, Bucky was pretty well steamed, but I got a lot of good mileage out of that. He– oh, I just remembered this time in France when that came up again…”

Sam lets out a little snort. It figures your bonding point would be over Bucky’s misery. Not that the guy doesn’t deserve it. And even though you and Steve are still on opposite ends of the room, Steve isn’t sitting quite so stiff and you’re laid out on the bed, listening to an old war story that Bucky will probably kill Steve for telling.

It’s progress, Sam thinks, and goes to take Steve’s patrol since he’s otherwise occupied.

 

**~Past~**

_It’s been a month or so since Bucky’s sudden arrival and things mostly go back to how they have. Pepper is working hard with Phil to make Bucky’s presence not a complete media and legal nightmare so he hangs around, sometimes like a ghost, and sometimes like Steve’s own shadow. Sam has come around to him, if not warmed completely. As relaxed as Sam strives to be, even he finds it hard to warm quickly to someone who tried to kill him and his friends. He’s trying, but Sam sometimes wakes feeling Natasha’s warm blood soaking into his shirt._

_Not tonight though. This one is a hundred percent Riley and Sam hasn’t had a dream this bad in a while. He’s done everything he can think of to come down but it hasn’t worked, so he’s in the gym at two in the morning, circling through machines for anything that will wear him down. Steve left on a diplomatic mission the other day, so Sam isn’t surprised when Bucky comes around and starts going to town on the punching bags. Aside from nods of acknowledgement, they don’t interact, going through their own routines but eventually ending up on treadmills near each other._

_Sam isn’t opposed to getting to know the guy, just appropriately wary, and they’ve had a few stilted conversations by now. He can do this. “Are you staying up late or getting an early start?”_

_Bucky snorts and flashes a quick glance at him. “You coming after the honor of being my keeper? Careful; Rogers’ll get jealous.”_

_There’s no malice in his tone, just a dry humor, and Sam can really get behind that. “I’m just wondering if Steve’ll be getting a date for his morning runs so he’ll finally let me sleep in peace.” If only Sam had known Steve had been literal about the ‘late start’ on that fateful morning run all those months ago._

_Bucky gets a crooked smile that must have been the basis for all those stories Steve has for how Bucky was the most eligible bachelor on the block. “If I gave in he’d take that as a victory and just get more annoying.”_

_“Ah, well can’t have that.”_

_“Damn right. Better to stay in bed.”_

_Sam smiles and turns up the speed. “You doing all right with Steve gone?”_

_But Bucky snorts and answers like it doesn’t bother him none. “Any more mother henning this week and I’d’ve decked him.”_

_“Do you want me to talk to him?”_

_Bucky blinks in surprise and then turns his head, expression changing to become suspicious. Man but that glare is something else. Unperturbed, (Tony and Clint are still alive, so Sam is almost certain Bucky doesn’t kill based on how annoying someone is), Sam raises his hands. “I know you can handle yourself but man, those baby blues are deadly. How you think he gets me out of bed at six on a Saturday?”_

_Bucky loosens up and looks ahead again. “Nah, it’s fine,” he says, a little more quietly. “Gotta let him work it out of his system.”_

_Sam isn’t sure Steve’ll ever stop being amazed and awed that Bucky is here with him. And he’s starting to understand that a little more. If Riley showed up one day Sam isn’t sure he’d ever let him out of his sight again. So really, Steve’s been pretty good about this whole deal._

_Standing on the machine at a stop, Sam decides he’s not really that tired yet and goes over to the bench and stacks some weights on the bar. He sits down and prepares to lean back when suddenly Bucky is there, standing almost awkwardly nearby. Sam stares at him and waits, and Bucky eventually says, “You…need a spotter?”_

_Sam eyes the infamous arm and can’t imagine anyone better for the job. Still, Bucky looks like he wants to flee and Sam thought they were over this, so he tries for something different. “That hunk of junk doesn’t malfunction, does it?”_

_Bucky scowls and holds his arm, but it’s not his Murder Scowl. Score one for Wilson. “Only for people who call it ‘junk.’”_

_Sam laughs. “Okay, I take it back then. Will you please use that beautiful piece of machinery to keep my head in one piece?”_

_Bucky lightens up the tightness in his face and says “I’d like that” and now Sam has to worry because he has two sets of emotionally intense blue eyes to contend with, dammit._

 

**~Present~**

Another day, another old safehouse Nat has somehow brought up out of nowhere, judging by Steve’s reaction to it. Despite his initial annoyance at Natasha knowing one of Bucky’s secrets, though, the air isn’t so heavy. Even in an old condemned apartment block.

“This place kinda looks like my old building,” you say and sigh. Sam feels a twinge of sympathy, but he can’t be anything other than glad they got there in time. Natasha is too damn good at what she does, and honest to a fault, so Hydra had to have known about you and been on their way even before Steve, Natasha, and Sam were.

“Are you sure you want to compare your home to something that’s been abandoned for years?” Natasha asks.

“Nat!” Steve scolds but you just laugh.

“I don’t know; it looks a little too decent to have been left that long.” You sweep your foot through the dirt on the floor. “Maybe Bucky took a broom to it once or twice.”

Steve chuckles as he and Sam take up their posts while Natasha ducks into a room. “Why? Did he ever do that for you?”

“Pffffft!” You roll your eyes so hard Sam is surprised they don’t go rolling down the hallway. “Mr. I’ll-eat-your-food-but-I’d-rather-lose-my-other-arm-than-wash-one-fucking-plate? Yeah, _right_.”

Steve laughs like he’s surprised to make the sound. Or maybe he’s shocked you made the joke. Either way, Sam lets out a little snort at the mixture of offense and humor on Steve’s face.

As soon as Natasha pops out to give the signal Steve goes in ahead of you and Sam follows behind. The unit they’re in has vague outlines in the dust and dirt, but it still hasn’t been used in a long time. Sam pays attention to the tone of the conversation you and Steve are having, but he doesn’t listen to the words.

Until Steve sounds concerned. “–ou all right?” Steve asks and you don’t respond.

Sam turns and does a quick look around the rest of the room. He follows your eyes to a hole in the floor Natasha has pried some boards away from. You walk forward and lift out…a blanket. The thing is well-worn, stained in places, and colored in such a way that Sam is fairly certain it used to be much more blue than it currently is. You cradle it, but Sam’s attention is stolen when Steve moves forward to examine what else is there.

“It’s not much,” Natasha says and hands Steve some papers.

Sam goes to stand behind him as he looks through them. Bucky’s enlistment papers, a photo of the Howling Commandos, a sketch of a building that makes Steve’s breath hitch before Natasha holds up dog tags that take it away entirely. “How did he–” Steve clamps down on a laugh and shakes his head. “I shouldn’t be surprised anymore.”

Sam sees you look at Steve’s treasures and then back at the raggedy blanket. You look lost for a moment and then press your lips into a tight line. Before Sam can say anything, though, Steve, well-meaning but sometimes-misguided Steve, says your name. And again. And again.

“What,” you bite out. Sam rolls his eyes to heaven. Lord save him from good-natured good old boys.

“Are you okay?” Steve asks, verging dangerously close to Captain America. Sam groans and even Nat sighs.

“I’m _fine_!”

Natasha steps in between you and Steve and puts her arm around you. “We’ll be in the car,” she says and leads you away.

 

**~Past~**

_Bucky’s first mission out has gone perfectly. Injuries are minor, none of the team is down, collateral damage is at an all-time low, and he and Sam have made a damn good team._

_Bucky has to go and ruin it by dropping two drones almost on Sam’s head._

_“Hey! Watch it,” Sam says and kicks one of the little metal bastards. The metal-armed bastard that threw it there drops down next to him, landing light on his feet and smirking up at Sam from a crouch._

_“What?” he says ‘innocently’ and stands. “Not like it would have ruined your ugly mug.”_

_“Oh yeah? Well this ‘ugly mug’ has a hot date tonight,” Sam says and smoothes a hand over his head._

_“Did you flash some plumage? Do a mating dance?”_

_“I’m going to,” Sam says and does a little booty shake. “You want to come? I hear you used to be quite the stud and she’s got cute friends. Steve is hopeless; he’s not invited.”_

_Bucky loses some of the humor. He doesn’t take on the anger that thinking of his past sometimes entails, so Sam waits patiently while Bucky thinks it over. He looks a little sad and shakes his head. “I, uh, I’m not much of a catch. Any guy or gal with a brain would walk the other way. **Should** walk the other way.”_

_There’s a story there; Sam can feel it. “So you weren’t tearing up the town between leaving DC and showing up in New York?”_

_Bucky shoots him a sharp grin. “Depends on what you mean by ‘tearing up the town’.”_

_“Aw come on,” Sam says. “Even you can’t punch Nazis all the time.” Bucky raises an eyebrow as if to challenge that, but Sam doesn’t allow the attempted deflection. “What’d you get up to outside of that?”_

_Sam expects one of three things: for Bucky to ignore the question, for Bucky to tell him off for prying, or for Bucky to make a sarcastic comment that draws them away from the subject. Any one of those would be useful enough for Sam to know how much or how little he should back off. But Bucky frowns heavily and says, “Mostly I was trying to decide what I wanted. I thought I knew.”_

_Sam studies him. “What about now?”_

_Bucky gives a helpless half-shrug. “Honestly? There’s a lot I want and not much I deserve.” He looks thoughtful. “I’m still figuring it out.”_

 

**~Present~**

Sam catches up with Steve when they’re switching shifts to patrol. Nat’s on the prowl elsewhere with a promise to return soon, you’re safe in the room Sam just left, and the countryside is quiet. Sam bumps into Steve’s arm, and Steve nudges him back. “Are _you_ okay?” Sam asks, placing the emphasis where Steve often doesn’t.

“Yeah,” Steve says even though he sighs heavily. “Yeah, I’m f–” He sees Sam staring. Sam continues to stare. He stares _hard_. Steve rolls his eyes and huffs and Sam is struck once more by the fact that this boy has one of the biggest attitudes he has ever encountered. It’s a miracle he survived his own commanding officers long enough to give Hydra a shot at him.

Thankfully, Steve is smarter than most everyone gives him credit for and he drops the act, running his hand through his hair. “I just…don’t get it,” he says. “Bucky’s opened up to me so much, more than I expected– sometimes more than I can handle– and he…” Steve purses his lips. “He means something to her and she means something to him. So why didn’t he ever say anything?”

Sam shrugs and wonders about some of the chats he’s had with Barnes, if there was ever something between the lines that could have clued him in. But that way lies madness, and he hopes Steve knows it too. “Apparently he didn’t say too much on you either, considering she’s just getting to know you now. And sometimes, yeah, people don’t stop talking about the people they care about.” Sam looks at Steve. “And sometimes they keep it to themselves because it’s too much to share.”

Steve sighs, mumbles something about going to check on Natasha, and heads downstairs.

Sam watches him go and lingers at the banister for a moment, listening to the house creak and groan as it adjusts, and thinking about the road so far. Things are starting to slot into place and Sam is feeling positive about the future, actually. This can be good for Bucky– and you– and Steve. Now Sam can only hope Bucky will learn to use his words. On the plus side, you seem like the type of person who will accept nothing less from him, at this point.

Preoccupied and tired, Sam is halfway down the hall when all the lights suddenly go out.

 

~~

You’re out on the balcony, your back to the house, and you stare across the expansive field in front of you, drawing in air like you’re trying to savor the feeling of breathing.

It’s falling apart.

The blanket, that is.

You play with a loose thread, rolling it between your fingers and resisting the urge to tug as hard as you can, just to see what happens. It’s been washed– it smelled like dirt and dust and made you cough and sneeze until Natasha had pulled it out of your hands and shoved it into a washing machine. Now it…well, it’s just a blanket. A nice one that you’ve missed, but you’re a little embarrassed over how emotional it made you earlier. Then again, you were more emotional over where it was put away. What else it had been packed with.

You’re not going to think about it. Trash Panda is still frustratingly out of reach and you can only fantasize about being the Homer to his Bart and choking him out with the threadbare cover that will probably tear itself to shreds under the pressure. So you don’t think of anything at all. You huddle up under the blanket and stare at the night sky. It’s awfully pretty, and somewhat soothing.

Your not-moping is very rudely interrupted by noise. And buzzing. You jump at the vibrations coming from your pocket and pull out– oh, your phone. It’s been so long since you’ve used it you’ve sort of forgotten you can get calls on it. Now you find yourself staring at the number on the screen. You stare a little more. It isn’t an exact match but it’s close enough that you answer the call and snap the phone up to your ear.

“Lucy, you’ve got some _splainin’_ to do.”

There’s a pause. Then, on the other end of the line, Bucky rumbles with reluctant laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: "Checking In" or "Hello Is It Me You're Looking For"


	11. “Checking In” or “Hello Is It Me You’re Looking For”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Bucky talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Busy busy weekend means earlier-than-expected update. I don’t know why I bother trying to plan these anymore x) Ah well. Enjoy!

 

You're both silent. It figures– you’ve spent day after day thinking about what you want to say to him (and at him) and now that you have the chance you can’t bring any of it to mind. You're having a hard time moving past the fact that he sounded fine when he spoke and now you can hear him breathing, calm and alive–

You take a shaky breath of your own and try to cool it.

“Are you all right?” Bucky asks and you let out an ugly snort.

“That’s what I was going to ask _you_ , asshole,” you say. God it’s good to hear his voice again. You’re not ever going to tell him that.

“I’m fine,” he says. His laugh is low and dark. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

Despite the fact that he can handle more than you're comfortable even thinking about, you smile. “Good. I hope you punch ‘em extra hard.”

“Anything for you, doll,” he drawls.

Tears well up in your eyes and you bat them down with eyelids and eyelashes, working against a storm of emotion. This isn’t the first time he’s said that to you, exactly like that, but it might actually mean something now and…

“You never answered my question,” he says. “Are you okay?”

Boy. And what a fucking question it is. “I’m fine,” you say and use the blanket to wipe away the drips and drabs that have escaped onto your cheeks. “Your friends are annoying, but they seem to be invested in keeping me bullet-free.”

“Take it easy on ‘em; they’re good people.”

You shrug, even though he can’t see you. “Well, Sam and Natasha are cool. Fucking Steve, though. We are going to have a serious discussion about your choice in best friends.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Oh _yeah_.” You stop and evaluate. “To be fair, he’s probably going to bitch about me too. Take it with a grain of salt.”

He laughs quietly and you wonder where he is, how safe it is. “I should’ve figured you’d rub each other wrong at first.”

“At _first_?”

“Give it time. He’ll grow on ya.”

“Like bacteria, maybe,” you mutter.

He laughs louder and you…you don’t think the joke was that good. “Okay, what’s so funny?”

“The fact that you act like you can’t stand him,” he says, still audibly amused. “You’re both a lot alike.”

You choke on a sharp, surprised inhale. “The _fuck_ we are. You take that back.”

“You're both sarcastic assholes, make bad decisions for yourselves because ‘it’s the right thing to do,’ don’t know when to stop mouthing off…”

Those are only three little things, in your opinion, but you can’t argue any of them. For either of you. “Ugh. I guess I can’t be best friends with myself, then.” You roll your eyes and catch sight of your hand. It’s almost all healed up, but… You clear your throat and decide to come clean. Bucky’ll be hearing about it from _someone_. “I, uh, kinda…punched him.”

Your phone buddy is utterly silent for several seconds. “And how’d _that_ go?” he asks, leaving the ‘you dumbass’ implied rather than explicit. It sounds like a close thing, though, by how he bites off the end of that question.

“Hey, he deserved it.”

Bucky is quiet and slightly more serious when he says, “What’d he say?”

“To be fair, I don’t think he meant it,” you say. You frown. Just because you understand Bucky doesn’t make you thrilled with him. “Neither of us exactly had any _warning_ about the other, you know. It was a little surprising. And we are going to talk about that. All of it. In _depth_.”

“Yeah. I know. That wasn’t how I wanted to introduce you, y’know?”

You bite down on the fact that he showed no signs of introducing you at all.

“But I knew Hydra was gonna try and track you down. I panicked.” He sighs. “I couldn’t contact anyone much; I shot Steve a message thinking he would take a few of them to go help you. I didn’t expect them to drag you along looking for me.”

“Hm.”

Bucky goes quiet, and stays quiet. For a moment you’re seized with fear that that’s all you get, that he’s gone, but then he speaks. Barely. “I’m sorry. About your home.”

Your throat closes up a little. You keep trying not to think about just how shattered your life has gotten but nobody’s out here to see you hug yourself and curl up, pulling the blanket tighter. You force yourself to swallow. “It– it was just a place.”

“Hm,” he says, imparting ‘liar liar pants on fire’ in one simple sound. “I liked it. It was the first home I’d had since…since the war.”

Is this asshole _trying_ to break you? You’re not going to cry, you’re _not_. But… “I liked it too,” you admit.

You can practically hear him smile, the bastard. “Sentiment?”

“I _know_ ; gross.”

“And you want to have a conversation full of it.”

“Oh fuck yeah. And I’m going to make sure you are equally miserably uncomfortable during it, believe you me. There’s going to be words. A lot of words. And _feelings_. Feelings out the ass.”

“Words and feelings, huh?” He clicks his tongue. “I don’t know if I’m capable of all that, doll.”

You smirk. It’s a shame he can’t see it. “What makes you think I’m talking about _you_? Oh, so many words. Most likely yelled.” Like, 98.99999 percent likely.

“I’m looking forward to it,” he says. “I’ll see you soon. Nat should be getting a call to go back to New York any time now. If she hasn’t yet, tell her I’m making my way back.”

“Oh, yay. No more squatting.” Your back certainly loves the idea.

“Nope. I’ve got a couch for ya.”

“Good. I, uh…I’ve got the blanket. You know– that nice one you apparently _stole_ from me.” Which, considering the ashen state of just about all of your belongings, has turned out to be a good thing in retrospect. You're not going to admit that one, either.

“You found the–hm.” Bucky doesn’t sound happy. “You’re definitely headin’ in the wrong direction then. I don’t know why they haven’t gotten in contact yet. As soon as we end the call, you go tell Natasha.”

“M’kay.” You sigh and hope you survive the encounter. Telling Natasha she’s wrong about something seems…ill-advised. Maybe you’ll take Steve. Maybe he’ll learn the proper way to use a shield. For now, though: “You really have to go?”

“I’ve got a lot to say, and I’d rather do it in person.”

That’s fair. Yelling at a phone is never as much fun as yelling at a person. “I’ll see you soon, Trash Panda. Or else.”

He snorts. “Soon, doll.”

He hangs up and you can’t help but feel buoyed. He sounds healthy and unharmed and, so sue you, you’re coming around to that dumb fucking pet name. It’s cute. You take a deep breath to fortify yourself and make the tears secede. You hope he realizes you weren’t joking about the feelings. If he doesn’t, that’s his own damn fault and he deserves what he gets.

You stand and turn, phone in hand and ready to take on hunting down the Black Widow, when you stop just as suddenly as you start. The house is dark. Why is it da–

Something sharp pinches your neck, and you’re out.


	12. “Homeward Bound” or “Trash Panda III: The Reckoning”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky thinks he’s doing all right, all things considered. So of course everything has gone to hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special Chapter Warnings: Slight violence
> 
> A/N: Argh; I think I’ve spent more time working on this chapter than I have spent on any other chapter thus far and it might be the shortest. Bucky, why you gotta be so difficult. However thankfully the next chapter is chugging along quite nicely and might be ready for follow-up quicker than I expected…though now that I’ve said that I’ve probably jinxed it. :Knocks on wood: I’m just…gonna stop talking now. Er, writing. Whatever.

 

 

If anyone would care to ask Bucky, he would say he’s doing all right.

One of the lucky unconscious Hydra assassins groans and Bucky gives him a swift boot to the head, silencing him once more. Bucky stares at him for a moment and then snorts. The guy actually made _noise_ when he started waking up.

Amateurs. Bucky’s dealing with amateurs.

Slight against his skills aside, he’s feeling pretty good. He’s left some drop points for Maria or Clint to play fetch with, he’s carrying a good portion of documents and hard drives, and he’s on his way home, as are Steve, Natasha, Sam, and…

You.

Bucky takes a steadying breath and gets to work piling the bodies of the dead and securing the living for the authorities. His ratio of alive-to-dead gets better every time, and he feels a small swell of pride at that. They may be neo-Nazi bastards but he’s found a sense of peace in seeing them caged, confined, and forced to fall in line. If that makes him petty, so be it. It also keeps him removed from the Soldier he used to be and he can’t find anything bad about that, no matter how ‘soft’ it makes him.

As he strips the living of their weapons, he chuckles at the thought that this pathetically sidestepped excuse for an ambush has actually offended him when he’s been debased with so much worse than a questioning of his abilities. Well, it makes _him_ smile. Steve probably wouldn’t find it funny. He thinks you might, though.

Bucky grimaces and throws the cattle prod-wielding asshole (well, former asshole) a little harder than he had intended. Right, you’re going to…talk. Both you and him. And he has to be actually physically present. The thought almost makes him sweat and hope for some Avengers-necessary disaster in the near future– after you are safely ensconced in the Tower, of course. But then that would give you unsupervised access to Pepper, whom you would likely make your ally, and then there’s _Maria_ , and Bucky suddenly realizes why Steve thinks jumping out of planes without parachutes is a reasonable and good idea.

The day he acts as stupid as Rogers, though, will be the end of them and as of right now Bucky intends to actually live his own life while he has it. If that includes subjecting himself to your suspicious squinting and passive-aggressive glaring and, yes, _words_ , then so be it. He’s anticipating the coming conversation in a way he doesn’t yet know how to parse. He’s dreading the questions and the anger. He’s also excited to see you, when he never expected to see you again. Which is something you probably know. And are going to be angry with him for. And yell at him about.

He winces. There’s going to be so much yelling.

He’ll take it, though.  He can’t say, honestly, he doesn’t deserve it. After decades of mental slavery and only a few short years of freedom, he’s still getting used to being human again and making his own choices. As everyone reminds him over and over (and over and over and over and over…) again, he can and will make mistakes. He can only hope, in this case, that it is not irreparable. It didn’t sound like you were unforgiving, but Bucky doesn’t know what to expect when his actions have cost you your home, your way of living, and put your very life on the line–

He fastens a zip tie a little too tight, sighs, cuts it, and replaces it with something that won't cost the person her limb. Because _he’s_ not an asshole.

Mostly. He feels like one, though, and he wonders if it wouldn’t have been better to leave earlier. Before accepting your dinner. Before climbing back into your window to rest. Before using your apartment as a base started to feel right and natural, like a real home. Before feeling your warm body sliding on top of his at night soothed his heartbeat and made him think he could have something like this.

He waits for the regret but it doesn’t come. He tries to force it, to tell himself that he isn’t worth all this, but his mind selfishly holds onto that feeling of safety and warmth the way he held onto your doorknob for a full five minutes before leaving that last time, the way he carried that stupid blanket with him for months before shoving it in a safe place with a handful of other mementos that he hoped no one else would find.

“Why are you smiling, Asset?”

Bucky turns to look at one of the living Hydra lackeys that he now wishes he hadn’t been so kind too. The man is squinting out of one eye, blood crusted over the other, and his smile is missing some teeth. Bucky’s not sure more or less teeth would help how creepy he looks, but he’s definitely willing to test the latter if the guy gets on his nerves.

“Were you thinking of your woman, perhaps?” he says.

Bucky flinches, but he’s good enough not to show it. His fist tightens, though, and the man’s smile curls.

A phone rings and Bucky only notes where the noise is coming from, keeping tabs on the too-conscious Hydra agent bound on the floor. “You should answer that,” the man says.

Yeah, right, because enemy assassins always carry safe-to-use phones that will absolutely not blow up in one’s face. Bucky aims without even looking and shoots the phone to pieces. The man flinches and loses his smile. “You– you should have picked that up. You have no idea who was on the other end.”

Bucky snorts, holsters his gun, and goes to knock the guy out. He gets as far as gripping the guy’s hair.

“‘Trash Panda’, she called you,” the man blurts out. “Even your lover refers to you as waste!”

That’s not what that m–

Bucky goes still in a way that almost hurts. It feels like a light flashes in his head, his body goes cold, and then hot. Very, very hot. He comes back to himself when his left hand is choking the man silent. Bucky forces himself to let go, and he barely restrains himself from hitting the man. At this point, he might kill him. It would be no big loss, except that he needs information now.

“Where,” Bucky growls.

The agent opens his mouth and Bucky knows, just _knows_ , it’s going to be bullshit. So he slams the man’s face into the ground and pulls him back up. Now the man can’t see out of either eye, thanks to the blood trailing over the other one. “I don’t–” he chokes and Bucky slams him to the ground again. The man stammers out coordinates and Bucky slams him one last time. The man is unconscious but breathing, and Bucky stands, grabs his things, and walks out. He barely resists the urge to leave nothing but bodies, to set the whole damn building on fire. Maybe there’s still a little bit of The Soldier in him.

He thinks it might be necessary to find out.


	13. “What is Love” or “Baby Don’t Hurt Me No More”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You find yourself in a bad way, thanks to your new Hydra pal. He wants to be introduced to Bucky. He should be careful what he wishes for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special Chapter Warnings: Reader peril, described torture, violence being visited upon Reader, I don’t know how else to say ‘bad things happen to Reader’
> 
> A/N: I would like to stress that the reader character does not have a super fun time in this chapter and dissociates during periods of torture/interrogation. I was descriptive of it so please take heed; if you need to skip this chapter that is a-okay. Now, that being said…everyone else, please enjoy. Long chapter is long.

 

 

You are terrified out of your mind, aching from whatever they had injected into you to knock you out, and in pain with a promise of more to come. However, some things just can’t be helped.

Your personality is apparently one of those things.

“Seriously? A _dungeon_? Do you LARP in your mom’s basement?”

“Do you ever stop talking?” says the wiry looking dork who has brought with him a rolling tray of assorted sharp and blunt objects. Some of them make you want to wet yourself, like the freshly sharpened knives, needles with who-knows-what in them, and a fucking mallet. However, some of them are sort of ‘eh’. Like that old rusted knife that probably can’t hack its way through butter. Ooo, tetanus. So scary. If you were under ten and couldn’t get a booster shot.

Wait, have you had your booster shot? Shit, that might actually be a problem.

But of course, it’s the long, thin, curved knife that the douchebag’s hand hovers over. “I have it on good authority that no, I don’t,” you say and damn it, you're pretty sure he can hear the quiver in your voice. His smile at you confirms it and you look away. Right at Steve, who is strapped down in some kind of tube thing and doing his best concerned face, so you look at the ground instead.

The others are like him too– Sam, Natasha, and even two people you didn’t really expect to be meeting like this: Hawkeye and Iron Man. Most of them are worse for wear and all of them are strapped to gurneys that slant upwards, enclosed in glass covers that you would compare to Snow White’s coffin if these things weren’t filthy with dirt and blood.

It’s hard to avoid looking at everyone when they’re in a half-circle around you. You’re standing, in your underwear, in the center of the room– well, sort of standing. Your wrists are cuffed behind your back and there’s a chain that is wrapped under your arms and shoulders and goes up to the ceiling, while your ankles are chained to the floor to keep you from…wandering, you guess. All that and the most annoying part of this is the grate you’re standing on. The holes are just big enough that if you don’t step carefully your toes get caught in them and that hurts like a bitch and a half when you don’t notice and try to move too fast.

On the plus side, you’re not in an enclosed tube. On the minus side, you’re pretty sure you’re going to be the lesson for everyone who is.

The DM grabs your chin and forces you to look at him. “Focus, sweetheart. I doubt you want to be here all day.”

Your blood rushes at the nickname. “I’m not your ‘sweetheart’, you sack of shit.”

“No, not mine,” he says, looking no less delighted. He purrs your name and you stare at him head on. You’re a woman in the world. If he wants to be the creepiest man you’ve ever met, he’s got some work ahead of him.

Unfortunately he seems to be up for the job, by how he leans in. “That is your name, right?”

“Ugh.” Your nose crinkles at the smell of…an everything bagel? Whatever it is, it does his breath no favors. “Can you breathe somewhere else? I don’t need to know what you had for breakfast. Also, why the rush? You can go brush your teeth; I’ll wait.”

He hits you so fast it stuns you. Your jaw aches and you blink away the stars and immediate pain. Still, at least it’s not a knife. You look at him, playing as cool as you can.

“We have to start slow,” he says and pulls back. “I don’t want to break you before I get my information.” Before you can ask _what_ information you, the creaky fourth wheel on this hellish road trip, can possibly have to offer him, he starts pulling on a smock. “My name is Richard, by the way. I can tell we’re going to be here a while.”

You roll your eyes. Dick. Well, it’s appropriate. “Buddy, I don’t even know what I had for dinner last night. I don’t know what information you’re hoping to get when you probably have more of it than I do.”

“How about that chit chat you had with your boyfriend?” Dick leans in close again. “Hm?”

Well. Shit. Although you didn’t actually find out anything, other than you’d meet up in New York, which is a relief. Not that you’re planning on telling him that, but you figure the less you know, the better.

Dick punches you in the stomach. You gag and try to double over at the force of it. Try, because the chains keep you up enough and don’t give much slack for your effort to preserve those pesky things you like to call ‘internal organs’. You suck in a breath before Dick grabs your hair and yanks your head up. “Where is the Soldier heading?”

“There are a lot of soldiers in this world,” you wheeze. “Though I don’t think I know anybody on active duty.” You think of making a joke about Steve or Sam but ultimately quash it in case you draw Dick’s attention to them. They can probably take a hell of a lot more than you can, but the thought of anyone else being in this position _because_ of you hurts your stomach more than that punch did.

Mother fucking _conscience_. The second science comes up with a way to surgically remove it you’re going to be first on the sign-up sheet. That thing is nothing but trouble.

Dick punches you harder, making you gasp and pant for air. “You know who I mean,” he says, still creepily level, like nothing about this bothers him at all. Mother fucking Nazis. If you surgically remove your conscience, can you give it away? They need it more than you do, you swear. “Where is the Asset?”

You take a few extra seconds to catch your breath. “You try putting your missing friend on a milk carton?”

Dick backhands you across the face right where he had punched you, only this feels impossibly harder, making you really see stars as a headache begins to swell. You can’t help the way your eyes tear up but you clench your jaw– ow, okay, bad idea. Still, you don’t cry out and that’s something.

“Where is your boyfriend?”

You spit out a little blood. “I don’t have one.” And a tooth. Oy vey; what a mess. “And, uh, if you’re looking to fill the position– buddy, you are going about it the wrong way.”

He presses his lips together into a tight, grim smile, and you weather the hits as they come the best you can. He keeps asking you the same question, ‘where, where, where,’ but you don’t even tell him that you don’t know. Avoiding the topic all together seems safest. As does denying all possible hints of whatever you and Bucky are to each other. You haven’t even gotten a chance to talk about it with _Bucky_ ; no way in hell are you talking it out with Dick. He is officially banned from Girls’ Night.

Thankfully, his hitting and occasional kicking is something you can mostly bear. Seriously, high school bullies are more inventive than this shit stain. You kind of sort of really hope it stays that way.

“All right,” Dick says, walking away and sounding as calm as if he hasn’t just been using you as a punching bag. The pain isn’t as bad as you might have thought. Less sharp, more of a constant ache all over, but you’re panting like you’ve gone a few rounds yourself. Fuck, does this make you Rocky? And is it hilarious or awful to cast the wiry white Nazi as Apollo? You’re gonna go with ‘awful’.

Dick comes back. Holding a tape player.

A _tape player_. Hydra, feared terrorists, ruthless assassins, and government infiltrators, are using fucking _cassettes_.

God, if Dick plays you his Excellent Eighties mix you’re going to throw yourself on his torture tray and hope something on there hits a vital organ.

“Please, no Air Supply, anything but that,” you say with as much drama as you can muster. It isn’t. Much, that is. You’re a little woozy.

Dick hits play. The tape is scratchy, but you can make it out just fine.

“Wanna tell us who your girlfriend is?” a raspy, strained voice asks. The person sounds pained to a point you can really relate with right now, honestly.

“No,” says your favorite deadly trash vermin. His voice lowers to a register and tone that, frankly, you don’t ever want to hear aimed in your direction. “And you’re going to regret ever finding out about her.”

Dick stops the playback and does an exaggerated shrug.

That’s…huh.

“But the important question is: did he post it on Facebook?” You ‘tsk’ even as that recording plays back in your head. And again. “Not official unless it’s up on the wall.”

Dick hits you again, and again, and again. You take it as well as you can but you’re still left dizzy and barely able to see, between the double-vision and the tears. He stops you from swaying and the weight of his hands on your shoulders makes you tremble. What is he going to do now? “This is your last chance before we get started,” he says, lowly. It’s pretty piss poor compared to Bucky’s looming voice, but Bucky isn’t here. This guy is. “Tell me what you and the Asset spoke about and I will show you mercy.”

Your stomach sinks. You think about feeding him some lies but he’d probably figure it out and then you’d be in even worse shape. Did Bucky even tell you anything of note? You’re pretty sure Dick doesn’t care about your shared emotional immaturity and Bucky only mentioned that everybody was supposed to be heading home. That he would be too. You almost tell Dick that– that Bucky’s going home where he’ll be safe and far the hell away from any Hydra douchebag who wants him– but would that give them a lead, an edge that they could use to hurt him? Is that something Bucky doesn’t want them to know? It’s best to keep quiet, in this case.

Dick pulls up his knife and holds it in front of your eyes. “Going once, going twice…”

You glare at him. “Going go fuck yourself.” You immediately try to brace yourself for the fallout but Dick doesn’t hit you. He does something worse.

He smiles.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” he says and presses sharp steel into your flesh.

 

 

_It’s a weird night. Bucky is silent, in one of his moods, and you’ve had a shit week so you’re not exactly Little Miss Extrovert yourself. Still, you’re going ahead with your plans to make a ‘decent’ dinner by foisting all the work on the guy who had the audacity to complain about the food **you** buy. Now maybe he’ll appreciate why you go for easy, oven-heated meals._

_But as you walk out of your room after changing into something comfier, you find him standing completely still at the counter. As you move around him you see all of the potatoes have been peeled but only one has been chopped up, and another is gripped loosely in his left hand while he stares hard at the giant knife he holds in the other._

_Great. This is totally reassuring. “Bucky?” you ask. He doesn’t budge an inch. Yep, totally great to have a former assassin holding a knife and probably having an episode. You take a small step forward, because nobody has ever accused you of being too smart and sensible for your own good. Bucky tells you the opposite whenever he can, in fact. “Bucky, seriously, if you want to check out your hair go use the mirror like a semi-normal person.”_

_He still shows no sign of life. It’s times like these you wish there was a manual– ‘How to Take Care of Your Formerly-Brainwashed Super Assassin.’ Granted, he’s not ‘yours,’ but he spends enough time at your house that you feel like you have to take partial ownership. Times like these you don’t really want to, but he’s still staring at the knife and you just hope he won't stick it in your brain. “Hey, Trash Panda!”_

_He flinches and turns his head to look at you with wide eyes. You find yourself a little helpless in the face of such blatant fear, but he schools himself back to his usual aloofness quick enough for it to be just a little blip. Thankfully. You are not good at feelings, though you sometimes try to make an effort at it._

_“Geeze, we’re never gonna eat at this rate.” Your version of ‘try’ doesn’t mean you always succeed, but in this case you do get the knife away from him so you can start chopping the potatoes into mostly-okay pieces. Mostly. Bucky observes you quietly for a few moments as you struggle to keep the fucking food equivalent of a bar of soap in your hand without chopping your fingers off._

_“That looks painful,” he murmurs._

_“I haven’t cut myself,” you say. Yet._

_“I meant for the potato.”_

_You give him the meanest look you can muster but he just looks **smug** which is totally unfair but even you won't joke about whatever dark place he just visited. So you punch him. Unfortunately, Bucky has turned and your aim is shit, so your knuckles collide with metal. Not terribly hard, but hard enough to cause a little pain, and hard enough to make you drop the knife in surprise, which you fumble to catch like the dumbass you are._

_“Ow! Ow!” you whine to both hands, one aching, the other stinging. Bucky pushes you over to the sink to start rinsing the blood off and he quickly holds a kitchen towel to the cut. He’s shaking and for a moment you’re afraid the blood has triggered a bad memory, but when you look at him he’s silently ‘laughing’._

_He’s **laughing**._

_“You asshole!” You use your not-cut hand to punch his not-metal shoulder. Even on flesh it doesn’t go much better for you._

_“Go sit down,” he chuckles as he bandages you up. “And try not to bludgeon yourself on the coffee table on the way, yeah?”_

_You’re set to argue out of sheer stubbornness but both of your hands are out of commission and at this rate you’re going to “Final Destination” your way into a truly ignominious death. A strategic retreat from kitchen hell might be in order. “I hate you,” you grumble and shuffle away._

_Bucky ruffles your hair and flashes you a genuine smile you haven’t seen on his face before. “No you don’t.”_

 

 

Dick makes a small but deep cut in your neck that makes you gasp for how much blood flows out. It’s not technically as bad as some of the others he’s carved into you– that one on your leg is tough to look at– but going out via slit throat seems like a real bad time to you.

But Dick is there, with a cloth and, “Don’t worry sweetheart, I’d never let you bleed out so soon. We’re just getting started. Unless you want to cooperate and tell me where the Soldier– where your _Sergeant Barnes_ is heading?”

The way he sneers, like Bucky doesn’t deserve a goddamn _name_ , makes Rational Thought and Reasonable Discourse take a backseat. Right into the trunk. “Cancun. He needs a nice beach vacation.”

Dick slaps you. You give a half-hearted shrug. As much as you can while strung up, anyway. “Yeah, I told him the Bahamas look much nicer, but what can you do?”

He puts his fingers over a gash he made in your shoulder and _pushes them in_. You scream but he doesn’t stop and for seconds that feel like minutes that feel like hours you can only think _I won't give him up I won't give him up I won't I won't I won–_

But _why_? Why won't you? Not that you’ve ever made a habit of selling out people you care about, but you hate pain and you always figured you’d crack like an egg if anybody ever threatened you with so much as a papercut. The question is worth examining if only to find out why your sanity and self-preservation have left the building.

The answer comes in a flash of pain and isn’t that just the most appropriate thing ever? You actually laugh. Dick grabs a handful of your hair and yanks your head back. “What’s so funny?”

“Hell of a time to have a revelation,” you mumble, still chuckling. It’s sort of funny. You had assumed you care so much about Bucky because you can maybe, some day, sort of, perhaps, in the future, possibly, eventually, kind of come to love that insufferable asshole.

You hadn’t really stopped to consider that you’re already there.

Stupid fucking trash panda. But then what does that make you? Ugh. Best not to think about it right now.

Ice cold water is dumped over you and you yell out in surprise. Dick’s mom’s basement is already chilly but the arctic shower you just took is so cold that your body isn’t shivering so much as it’s spasming.

“Don’t worry,” Dick says, going through a toolbox he’s pulled up. “I’ll find something to warm you up.”

 

 

_It’s hot and miserable. You’ve been trying to sleep for hours, but the night is relentless and you decide to stop sweating through your sheets for a few minutes._

_You get to the living room and jump about five feet. Wow, okay, Bucky’s home apparently. “I thought you said you weren’t a robot,” you say as you approach him. He continues to stare blankly at the window. Out of the window? No, definitely just at. Shit, but that expression is too familiar to be good. Still, you stand next to him. “But normal humans don’t sleep like that.”_

_He blinks. “What?” he asks._

_“Where’s your head at?” you ask back._

 

He presses the hot poker against your collarbone and you scream. It’s harder to tune this out when the cuts simultaneously burn. You’re starting to sweat.

“I told you I’d warm you up,” Dick says and pushes your head to one side, leaving a broad expanse of your neck wide open.

 

_Bucky shakes his head. “Nowhere good,” he mumbles. His throat pulses with a swallow. “I shoulda stayed gone. It’s too fuckin’ hot.”_

_“Man, you’re tellin’ me.” you fan yourself. “I didn’t know you got back already. You’re lucky I’m wearing clothes.”_

_“I don’t know if I’d call that ‘lucky,’ doll.”_

_You choke on air. “Well, Mr. Barnes, I do declare!” you manage to say as he chuckles. It gets quiet again and Bucky looks a little less unnerved, but still not quite relaxed. He’s still…_

_“What?” he asks you._

_There’s no nice way for you to ask this question. So maybe you shouldn’t. But he’s staring at you and ugh, you might as well just ask and deal with the fallout. “Does your head ever go anywhere good?” you say and lean against the couch arm. “You remember stuff before Hydra…is any of it good?”_

_He looks thoughtful, not angry, so that’s something. “Sometimes.” He squints, like there’s something only he can see in the distance. His lips quirk into a slight smile. “Cool bottles, hot night. Steve laughing about something.”_

_From the way the smile molds to his face you assume there’s more to that than he’s saying, but that’s okay. He looks content so you go to the kitchen and turn the faucet on, letting it run until it’s cold while you grab a few things._

_When you return to the living room it’s with two wet, cold dishtowels and fresh-out-of-the-fridge beer bottles. You’re already wearing your towel and when you drape the other one around the back of Bucky’s neck he lets out a satisfying little groan._

_You plop down next to him. “Sounds nice, but it must have been hard not to actually get your drink while it was cold.” But as you hold the sweating bottle to your cheek, you can see the appeal._

_Bucky grunts his agreement and holds up his frosty beverage. You hit yours to it and you both take long pulls, and settle in to suffer together._

 

 

Dick drags the hot point down your back and you scream and try to pull away but he holds you steady. Your blood feels like fire, molten streaming down your back. He says “hm” in a pleased tone of voice, like his little lightsaber fantasy has been satisfied. Fucking thank god, though, he walks back around to your front and puts the poker down.

“Congratulations, sweetheart,” Dick says, pulling off his torture-approved oven mitts. “You’ve lasted almost six hours already.”

How is it _possibly_ still the same day? You want to ask but all you can do is drool.

“What’s wrong? No smart comments?”

You roll your eyes and pull up some energy by the sheer power of your assholery. “Buddy…if I was…a…vegetable…I’d still be…smarter than…you.” You breathe deep and force yourself to stand upright. “No comments needed.”

Dick grins. “I’m glad to see you haven’t broken yet.” He smooths your hair back. “I’ll let you rest up a bit and we’ll pick this up later.”

You’re spent so you can’t even pretend to fight back when he has two of his buddies come in and unhook you. Everything is stiff and doesn’t want to move and you almost wish they weren’t taking you down. Almost. Though it’s not much better when they stick you in the most uncomfortable chair you’ve experienced outside of a Pier One or Ikea and strap you down.

You don’t realize you’ve dozed until you’re getting doused with cold water yet _again_ and Dick says, “Rise and shine, sweetheart!”

“Buddy, words cannot express just how much I am _not_ here for your “Flashdance” fetish,” you stammer through chattering teeth.

“It sounds like you had a nice nap,” Dick says and pulls up a chair. “I’m glad. Are you ready to chat, yet? If not, we can get started right away.”

This guy is such a tool. “What part of ‘fuck off’ confuses you?”

He holds his heart– or at least, the space where it should be– and mocks a sad expression. “Sweetheart, I thought we were friends. You keep calling me ‘buddy’.”

“You’re right, so sorry. It’s ‘Dick’, right?”

“Richard, actually.”

“Pretty sure that’s what I just said.”

He grips your thigh and digs his thumbnail into the long, jagged cut, dragging his thumb down and through, splitting the wound and making it bleed once more.

You don’t scream but you choke and gasp and hiss, “Son of a bitch!”

“I like that one. We’ll keep it open,” he murmurs. He smiles bigger and says, normally, “I prefer ‘buddy’.”

“Too bad, _Dick_.” Seriously, what does he take you for. Wait, it’s probably better not to know. “Though if you stop with the stupid nickname you have for me, I’ll consider dropping the one I have for you.” Unlikely to actually happen, but it seems charitable to at least offer to think about it. You’re nice like that.

“What, ‘sweetheart’? But you are one.” He leans closer. “Will you be _my_ sweetheart?”

Your face almost twists right off your body, you’re so grossed out by the idea. “Ohhhh, ugghhhhh. Man, I’d rather sit through a six-hour lecture on safe sex as given by Captain America.” Actually, when you think about it, that sounds kind of hilarious. “Or I’d rather–” have Dick cut out your ‘sweet’ (gross) ‘heart’ out with the tetanus knife.

“You’d rather…” Dick prompts.

“Eh, I’m not gonna say it because you might actually do it.” Sick bastard.

“If it hurts, then it’s likely.” Dick smiles again and pats your cheek. The touch is light but it still makes you flinch. “It’s all right, I understand. You’re taken.”

You're not getting into _that_ again, so you keep quiet. Dick stands up, looks at the ground, and nods his approval before going to the corner of the room to get something. You glance at the floor but it’s just the same old grate underneath you and flat floor everywhere else. Nothing special.

He rolls over a weird looking box-thing, with dials and switches all over the top and a bundle of wires piled on top. “I’m very excited to share this with you,” he says and starts untangling the wires, pausing to show you two circular pads. “It’s not the exact unit, but this treatment was your boyfriend’s favorite.”

You stare at them for a moment, until it hits you.

You’ve never killed anyone in your life, but if you had to kill him, you’d do it right now without hesitation, and you know it wouldn’t keep you up at night.

“Oh!” Dick laughs. That fucking monster _laughs_. “He told you about this.”

Not in so many words, which makes it worse. You’re not comfortable with this asshole knowing that, though, so you play it off with a little shrug. “Or I saw it on the news or in an interview or something. There was a lot about the Winter Soldier.” You look him right in the eyes. “Especially when he started kicking you guys right in the teeth.”

Dick smiles patiently and holds the pads up. God, is this how they looked when they hooked Bucky up? Did they smile, laugh, joke when they did this to him? You had a TENS unit, once. The day Bucky had seen you put it on your shoulders– well, it was the one time you had feared Bucky. Feared and been so sad for him. That expression on his face was not, _is_ not, one you ever, ever want to see again.

Something that can hurt Bucky like that absolutely terrifies you. Is it just torture? Or will they do to you what they did to him? Will they strip you down and make you forget?

Also, _fuck_ your life where you can think of anything as ‘just torture’.

As Dick is about to stick those wires to you, a door swings open in the distance. Somewhere over…fuck, you can’t even pretend to know. Or care. But some other guy calls out something in not-English and Dick responds likewise, and they converse for a few moments.

Dick sighs and puts down the wiring, and as much as you don’t want him to know how scared you are, you can’t help how your whole body sags with relief. “I have to go report in, but I’ll be right back,” he says and leaves.

You tug at chains and straps but they don’t get any looser and you certainly haven’t gotten any stronger in the past five minutes. Still, it seems better than sitting and waiting for Farquad to mosey on back.

You haven’t checked on the others yet– you’ve periodically forgotten that they’re there– and you still don’t want to. If they’re alive then they’ve been watching you get worked over and you’re not a fan of however they’re going to look at you. You don’t know how much they’ve heard but there have to get air in there somehow.

Unless they’re all dead…

Fuck it. You do a quick scan to make sure everyone’s alive and you ignore Steve’s attempt to keep your attention. Whatever he needs you to do, you don’t think you’re capable, and doesn’t that just suck. If Natasha and you were switched she probably would have snapped Dick’s neck by now. You’d be out of here, _not_ getting–

Gunshots sound on the level above you and your heart leaps into your throat. You pull on the restraints– again, not any looser, but the thought of being trapped in the open while guns are going off is _terrifying_.

The door slams open and Dick runs in, blood on his face and looking alarmed. Well, that’s a sight. You don’t really get to enjoy it though; he scrambles behind you, grabs your chin and pins your head to his stomach as he presses his gun to your temple. And then you…wait.

Not for long, though. You didn’t hear anyone follow Dick down but there Bucky is, sliding out of the shadows like a ghost rematerializing. You’re speechless in the presence of him. He’s standing tall, suited up in all black, and already wearing what you assume is his best murder face. But then he looks around at his friends, trapped, and then at you, and if you were Dick you’d wet yourself at the look Bucky is giving him.

Then again, if you were Dick, you would have made very different life choices leading up to now, so, to each their own and all that.

“Put the gun down,” Bucky says, while wielding his own. At Dick. Who is right behind you.

Bucky’s murder face is suddenly way, way, _way_ less attractive.

“No, that’s not how this is going to work.” Dick presses the gun even closer. “Stand down, Soldier.”

Bucky stares at him. This really, really sucks, but all you can do is hope it’s quick and…and…

Bucky unloads the ammo from the gun, letting it fall to the floor before he tosses the gun itself far away from him. But Dick doesn’t let up on you. “ _All_ of your weapons, Soldier. I’m not stupid.”

“That’s debatable,” you mutter as Bucky rolls his eyes. Well, at least you’re in agreement on that. But Bucky starts removing weapons from his person– knives, guns, holy hell are those _bombs_ , clips, rounds, and things you’re glad you can’t identify. At the rate the pile of death is growing, you have to consider your trash panda is really more of a murder squirrel. The last thing Bucky throws on the pile is a knife smaller than the two Bowies already buried and it’s all so ridiculous you almost laugh. Almost, because Dick still has a gun to your head and that is not conducive to hilarity.

“Upstairs is almost cleared out,” Bucky says. “You should either try to kill me now or surrender already. You’re not walking out of here.”

“Well…not alone,” Dick says. He says a word in Russian that makes Bucky go stiff and wide-eyed. Dick says another and Bucky jerks, like he’s going for one of his weapons, but then Dick smashes your head with the gun and Bucky stops at your cry of pain.

You’re a little woozy but then Dick says another word and finally, _finally_ you get it. And swallow your heart. “Bucky– _no_!” you shout over the next word, hoping Bucky will just fucking _run_ or something, but he doesn’t, he stays where he is, why is he still standing there?! Dick grabs your head by your mouth and the silence is punctuated with the last few words.

Bucky goes slack– not falling, but he’s no longer so tense. His expression goes flat, and his eyes–

–you can’t look at them for more than a second. There’s nothing of _him_ in there. No Bucky, no Trash Panda, no _person_.

The Winter Soldier speaks in Russian and you want to wake up now. Because this– this can’t be happening. Bucky can’t drop his weapons because of you. Bucky can’t be forced to listen to _those words_ because of you.

Bucky can’t be lost because of you.

Dick takes the gun away from your head. You don’t feel any safer for it. “How many did you bring with you, Soldier?” he asks, breathing easier. You hate him with every part of your fucking salty soul.

“Twelve.”

Dick practically hisses. “Damn,” he says and walks around. You assume he’s looking at the others but you can’t stop looking at–…at Bucky. At where Bucky was. Still is. You feel dizzy. Passing out would be real nice right now.

“We have no time to take care of the rest. Shame. But…” Dick goes to stand next to Bucky. He puts his gun in Bucky’s hand.

“Let’s make sure you never want to come out of being the weapon you were always meant to be,” Dick says. “Kill her.”

Bucky takes aim and you can only stare dumbly at them. At Dick, smirking, and at Bucky, so cold and distant. Bucky never talked about what Steve did to snap him out of it. He only said that Steve had almost died because of it. And you don’t have that history. You don’t have that innate level of friendship and love. You have less than a year of memories, some good, some bad, and a lot of ‘maybe’s that could have been.

The shot rings out, and you wonder why you don’t feel any pain.

Until Dick crumples to the ground.

Bucky drops his hand, still holding the gun. “Moron,” he sneers at the body and then looks at you, back to his resting murder face and with life back in his eyes.

You…

You breathe.

Deeply.

Bucky is going to regret not shooting you because you are going to murder the _FUCK_ out of him.

You keep the growing well of rage and upset down while he, with some effort, rips the lid off Natasha’s tube, unstraps her, and snaps something in Russian that has her running to Dick’s body. You even hold it together when Bucky puts his hands on you and braces you while he rips at straps and chains like they’re Silly Putty.

It’s when he’s helping you up and you start to fall, only for him to catch you by wrapping his arms around you, that you lose it. “You– you fucking jerk! You bastard!” You hit him. Not hard; you aren’t capable of it and you don’t really want to _hurt_ hurt him, not really, but– “You asshole _you scared the shit out of me_!”

He sighs and runs his hand through his hair and, shit, he looks really good. Full-bodied and healthy, like he’s eating enough, and his hair is all soft, and is this some sort of weird halo effect from him saving you? Would you be eyeing Steve this much if he had shot the guy?

Ugh. That’s a gross thought.

“It was necessary.” Bucky is half carrying you because your body is in a state of ‘just don’t wanna’ that you feel you can’t be blamed for. “It’s good that you believed it, because he had to.”

It makes sense. It worked. Still. “You’re the fucking worst,” you mumble and lean into him, intending to rest your eyes for just a second. “Officially my least favorite trash panda. Even under that bastard that left a torn up garbage bag in the middle of the sidewalk.”

He chuckles. “I missed you too,” he says with a warmth that you’re convinced you’re imagining. Heroic rescue is a hell of a drug.

“No you didn’t.” Tears slip down your cheeks. “You weren’t ever going to come back. You would have stayed gone forever.”

He sighs. “It was better. Safer.”

After the past couple of days– actually, the past week plus, you have an itemized list on just how much bullshit that is. You can give a lecture on it, even without updating it to include right now. Luckily for him, exhaustion pulls you out of consciousness before you can start your presentation, but he is gonna fucking _get it_ later.

Maybe you’ll make a PowerPoint.


	14. “Waking Up” or “Pull Me In With Steady Hands”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You find yourself in a spot of safety and comfort at last. So. Where the hell is Bucky?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: A little bit of a breather. For the record I was going to put Dr. Cho in here but I already have too many characters. Let’s just pretend she’s on vacation. And I know Bruce isn’t technically *that kind* of doctor, but he was doing some basic healing in the first “Avengers” movie, the serum is meant to work on human bodies so you probably need to know how humans work…and just headcanon for this story I bet Tony pestered him into it because the number of people Tony trusts to work on him is very, very, very low. So. Anyways, enough rambling, please enjoy.

 

 

You wake up.

You think. Everything is hazy and you feel light, so light that you wonder if you have a body at all. While you think there are people over you, they look more like shadows than anything.

You’re awake just long enough to get the stinging, aching sensation that you don’t really want to be, and then you’re out again.

 

You wake up.

With a jolt, smelling metal and feeling heat. You're not strong enough to throw the covers off on the first try but the act wears you down enough that you realize you’re not stuck in some crappy torture chamber. You’re in a private room that feels too comfortable to actually belong to a hospital, but it’s got the machines, the bed, an IV stand, and it smells just sterile enough that it can’t be anything other than a snazzy hospital space.

At least you’re not restrained at all, and you’re in remarkably less pain than you were than when you passed out. Your head’s a little woozy still, but you assume that’s pain medication. The pain medication is pretty nice. After a minute or so your head clears enough for you to realize you’re alone and it’s dark.

You’re tired, but not exactly eager to go back to sleep. There’s some light illuminating from a window a few feet to your side and you ease yourself over to it, mindful of your aches and pains and the fact that your legs are almost as creaky as the Tin Man’s pre-oiling. You pull the curtain back and look out over a cityscape that takes you a few seconds to recognize. You are ridiculously high up and New York stretches out below you in a way that’s…comforting.

You made it. And if you made it, they had to have made it, right? You grab hold of the IV stand and look around for the door.

“Excuse me, Miss–”

You almost fall, you turn so fast, but the room is pretty dark and the moonlight can only shine on so much. The voice comes again, though, and this time it sounds like it comes from one centralized place that you’re already looking at. If you squint, you think you can see a speaker. “I apologize for startling you. My name is Jarvis and I am an artificial intelligence system created by Tony Stark. I run the Tower and can answer most questions you may have.”

You blink. Okay, time to put your head to work. “You’re an AI?”

“Yes, Miss.”

A polite AI.

“I do try.”

Shit, you didn’t mean to say that out loud. The drugs are too nice. You need off.

“I can mark a request for Dr. Banner upon his return. Or, if they are bothering you overmuch, I can alert a nurse?”

“No, no, I’m…” tired, so you sit back on the bed and scoot IV back into place. You’re not going to find anybody before you pass out again. However… “You can answer questions about what’s been going on here?”

“Yes, Miss. I monitor everything in the tower.”

Well that’s not creepy. “Okay Hal. Um…when I got here, were there were other people with me?”

“Master Stark, Captain Rogers, Agent Romanoff, Agent Barton, Sergeant Barnes, and Mr. Wilson returned home with you and were subsequently cleared through medical to rest in their own rooms.”

Phew. You lie back on the bed, because it’s looking really nice now that you’ve exercised for a minute. Except something about what Jarvis just said niggles at you but you’re not sure what, so you decide to keep him talking. “Hey, why ‘Mr.’ Wilson? Isn't he military too?”

“He insists.” You can’t decide if it’s cute or creepy that a computer can manage to sound so mildly affronted by the forced impropriety.

You go with ‘cute’ for your own peace of mind. “So they’re okay?”

“Yes, Miss. They all have expressed a general wish to come visit you. Might I suggest resting until a more appropriate waking time?”

“Hmm.” You lay back but eye the ceiling with some suspicion. Who knows what Jarvis means by ‘monitoring’? “Quick question: Skynet or Teletraan?”

Jarvis makes a sound like a sigh. A _sigh_. How is a computer already tired of your shit? “It is no wonder Sir expressed great interest in meeting you.”

“Please don’t say GLaDOS.”

“Miss, I think it may make you more at ease to know that I have complete and full access to everything in the tower, and Sergeant Barnes knows this and still sleeps.”

You’re ready to come back but that’s actually a pretty compelling argument. Trash Panda can take care of himself a lot better than you, but he’s as skittish as it gets. If he can handle the supercomputer, so can you. You settle back into bed and sleep, again, comes easy. “G’night, Deep Thought.”

 

You wake up.

That’s…slightly inaccurate. Factually accurate but– you don’t wake up this time so much as you are woken up by hushed but furious voices going at each other outside of your room. You recognize those two voices and oh geeze, it sounds like your two favorite relics are tearing up their friendship bracelets. When you told Bucky you wanted to have a discussion about his taste in friends you didn’t really mean for them to break up but it sounds like things are getting heated regardless. You take a moment to get your head together. You’re not hooked up to anything; there’s a little monitor on your finger but it’s wireless, which is cool, and you feel a lot more lucid without the good stuff being pumped into your veins. As nice as the pain meds were, it’s even nicer to have a clear head again.

_“Dammit, Bucky…”_ comes a muffled voice.

Oh, right. Geriatric Action Theatre.  You sigh and stretch a bit, but still wince at the aching pain that flows through you when you stand. You can safely rule out a career as a punching bag. That internship sucked.

Even behind a wall you can hear Bucky swearing under his breath in Russian and you, very quietly, open the door.

“Why did you drag her along?” he asks, staring down Steve with a glacier coldness. “She’s a _civilian_ and you dragged her along looking for _Hydra_?”

“How was I supposed to know, Buck? You didn’t tell us anything and neither did she!” Steve lobs back, matching with his own cold fury. “We were worried about you.”

They don’t seem to notice when you open the door fully, so you just stand, leaning against the doorjamb, and watch them. Tony Stark, a little bruised, and a worried-looking man with brown, wavy hair, are also present on the other side of the hall. They’re both enraptured by Old Man Angst Revue so you settle in to watch as well.

“I can take care of myself!”

“Bullshit! All of Hydra was after you, Westcott was after you.”

“Westcott is a fucking joke.”

Steve rubs the back of his head like he wants to take all his hair out. “Maybe so, but every agent he can muster plus everything Hydra still has? You’re not invincible, Bucky; you needed help and it’s not like I could just call you up and ask you _why_ you sent us to her. I had no idea until several days in.”

Bucky frowns and sighs. “Yeah, well, I probably shoulda figured she wouldn’t exactly be forthcoming…”

“What was she supposed to be forthcoming about?”

Steve Rogers is defending you. Your eyes go as wide as they possibly can and you feel yourself for a pulse because this isn’t real life, is it? A pinch still hurts so you’re just going to assume Hell has frozen over. Or maybe– shit; you should have known by the supercomputer that replicants are also a distinct possibility. Or maybe a doppelganger?

“She is, as you say, a civilian, who hadn’t seen or heard from you in over a year, and one day I show up and drag her out of her apartment to keep her from getting killed in a full-on Hydra assault. How forthcoming was she supposed to be? She thought we had brought Hydra on our tails when, in actuality, they already knew about her.”

Bucky’s quiet. You really like DoppelRogers. “I couldn’t–…”

Steve sighs when nothing else comes. “I know you did the best you could. So did we. We tried to keep her as safe as we could, Buck. When we were captured I tried to get them to leave her alone, to go after me instead.”

There’s a lot of regret in Steve’s voice and you’re seriously going to throw up if this gets any more sincere. So you clear your throat and they both look at you. They all look at you. “I’m really glad you girls have stopped clawing each others’ eyes out and have moved on to the conciliatory hair braiding, but some people on this floor are trying to sleep. Do you mind sobbing for forgiveness elsewhere?”

The man you think is vaguely familiar but who you don– oh yeah, Bruce Banner; he coughs into his hand and moves to go around Steve and Bucky, coming towards you. “You shouldn’t be up, yet,” he says gently and yeah, considering the fact that _standing_ makes you tired, you can’t really argue.

“Tell it to Oscar and Felix. Kinda hard to sleep when two grumpy old men are having it out right outside your room.” You look your hobo friend up and down. He’s wearing sweats and a tank top and he looks fucking good– comfortable and safe. You try not to look too approving; it might go to his head. “So Trash Panda, how about you take your Golden Retriever and talk about your feelings elsewhere? Some of us are trying to _nap_.”

Dr. Banner hides his smile with his hand, Steve and Bucky roll their eyes like the humorless jerks they are, and Tony Stark stares at you.

“What?” you ask the gawker.

“Can I keep you?” he asks. The awe in his tone, while strange, is nice enough to offset the inherent creepiness.

“No offense, man, but I’ve had a bad couple weeks of being ‘kept’,” you say and, after a moment of thought, look right at Steve.

He sputters. “I was _protecting_ you.”

“Uh huh. Tell it to the judge, Captain Kidnapper.”

Steve screws his mouth down but after just a moment he relaxes. “I thought you weren’t going to tell on me.” He shows a slow smirk. “On account of you being a fugitive yourself.”

You stare at him. You try to hold it back, but the laughter comes forth. You tell yourself it’s just relief, because Steve Rogers is not half as cute as Steve Rogers thinks he is. However, he’s not nearly the ancient stick in the mud everyone else tries to say he is, either. “Careful, Cap. What will people say if they find out you’re not such a tight ass after all?”

“They’d never believe you,” he says. Then he goes soft.

You are way too wiped to deal with feelings right now. “Save it, Ultimate Frisbee.” You wave your hand dismissively. “All’s well that ends well, yeah?”

He smiles and, because you can’t run, he comes over and hugs you. “Uuuggggghhhhhh, nooooo; you sappy bastard get off of me.”

Bucky opens his mouth, probably to quip about how much you hate feelings, but he shuts it before he gets a word out. You watch him for a moment, waiting for whatever he needs to say, but Rogers tortures you with the hug for several seconds and Bucky still doesn’t say anything. He looks like he wants to bolt and you don’t have the strength to give chase. Also, Dr. Banner is hovering close with a nonverbal ‘get back to bed’ and if there’s any chance of you following doctor’s orders, well, it’s going to be for the guy who turns into the angry green giant. So you point at Bucky, say, “Stay close, because you and I are gonna have a long-ass talk,” and you shuffle back to bed.

 

When you wake up again, it’s quiet and you can tell by the sunlight it’s later in the day. The same day, you hope. Dr. Banner is standing next to you, reading something off of a machine and fiddling with a tablet. He looks over at you and smiles warmly. It’s hard to imagine such a calm-looking guy harboring an inner demon that can destroy a city, but isn’t that just the best sort of irony, you guess.

“Hello,” he smiles and approaches you, offering his hand in a light, also non-threatening way. “We didn’t get to meet properly earlier. I’m Dr. Bruce Banner. Please call me Bruce.”

You introduce yourself and eye his hand. “Can I take a raincheck on the handshake? My wrist feels like a limp noodle.”

He nods and takes a chair next to you. “You’re healing up very well. Thankfully most of the damage was superficial and as long as you take it easy you should be fine. Jarvis mentioned you didn’t like the painkillers so I took you off of them, but if you need them again just let me know.”

Before he can go on with the medical talk, you decide to politely interrupt. “Thanks Doc. Is Bucky around?”

Bruce suddenly looks like he’d rather go do his own root canal and you wonder how bad it would be to meet the Hulk. He looks like he’s got a lot more control these days. Maybe if you ask nicely he’ll smash a stupid-ass super soldier for you. But no, that’d be letting Bucky off too easy…

“Did Bucky tell you why he had to go on the run?” Bruce asks.

You wave your limp noodle hand. “He had some Hydra shit they wanted back.”

“A _lot_ of Hydra shit,” Bruce says and puts his tablet aside. “And getting what he did– that’s just the beginning. Now it has to be put to use. It wasn’t just the Hydra remnants this is going to affect; it’s going to be like the SHIELD Insurrection all over again, only with a lot more government agencies involved.”

Your nose crinkles at that. After a while you had stopped paying attention to the news about that, because the amount of bullshit panic laws and bills that came out of it was like watching the aftermath of 9/11 all over again and it was just too damn depressing. Bruce nods in empathy. “Exactly,” he says and leans back.

“He doesn’t have to go to any hearings or anything, does he?”

“Probably not many, if he does. I think everyone is going to try and keep this a lot quieter– it’s in their best interests,” he says with a grim little smile. “But Steve will be involved for a while, so I imagine Bucky will be too.”

You try not to be bitter that Captain Apple Pie has taken Bucky away from you yet again, but that’s a losing battle. Probably one you’re always going to lose, if you’re being honest with yourself.

“I know it’s not much, but I’ll be around fairly consistently, and the others will be in and out until this is mostly settled,” Bruce says. “And Jarvis is always here, if you need something.”

“Oh yeah, me and stationary KITT are like this,” you say and twine your fingers together.

Bruce rolls his eyes. “I’m sure he’s delighted.”

“Do I have a prescription for that sass, Dr. House, or is it part of the standard hospital stay?”

He shakes his head, and his shoulders do too as he hides his laughter. “I don’t think I’d like to be Dr. House.”

“If you’d rather be Dr. Lecter I’m checking out right the fuck now.” You pause. “If you feel more like Dr. McCoy, we can talk.”

Bruce is doing the silent laugh thing again. It’s a little unnerving; if you don’t look right at him to see his shoulders shake you’d miss it. Still, it’s gratifying to get a reaction, even if it’s short and he tries to keep it under wraps. He gets control of himself and stands. “I have to go do some work in the lab, but if you need me just ask Jarvis to call. We also have a couple of nurses who can help out if I can’t. Jarvis can order whatever you might need and there’s a TV in the corner, but if you get bored, there’s a tablet in the drawer next to you.”

He’s so nice. It’s really making your skin itch. You want to come back with something caustic, something that makes this not so unrealistically shiny, but Bruce is there looking so earnest and he wears it so much better than anyone you’ve ever met. He might even really mean it. So you give him a thumbs-up and settle back into bed. A few minutes after he’s gone, you pull out the tablet and start making a list on why Bucky is the Worst Trash Panda Ever and how he can start making it up to you.

 

You wake up without realizing you had fallen asleep. The tablet is on the side table and the sheets are pulled up, but you feel more energetic than you have in days and being in bed feels like the worst idea in the world. You sit on the edge for a moment and then stand, and you feel mostly fine; you’ll just have to go slow.

“Hey Jarvis, there’s no off-limit areas around here, are there?” you ask. “I need to stretch my legs a bit.”

“Any off-limit area will be inaccessible; you may go as you please.”

You get up and start wandering up and down the hall. You think you’ll just pace a little bit until you’re ready to lie down, but you’re pretty awake now, if a bit tired, and sitting in bed still doesn’t sound very appealing. “Jarvis?”

“Yes, Miss?”

He doesn’t sound tired of your questions, yet, so that’s nice. “Is there a place here with a decent couch or comfy chair?”

“There is indeed.” A pair of doors open next to you and you jump. Okay, you slightly hop, in a way that your feet don’t actually leave the ground. You still have to hold your aching ribs and you stare into the elevator you hadn’t noticed, but after a moment you step inside. It only occurs to you, after the doors close, to ask, “And I’m allowed to go there, right?”

“There is no ‘forbidden west wing’, Miss Belle.”

You laugh. “Good job Data; I think you’re getting it.”

The elevator ride is so smooth you barely realize it’s happening when the doors open onto a wide open floor. There are indeed couches, a bar– and people. Apparently the revenge of the machines is petty humiliation. Luckily the only people to witness it are Bruce, Tony Stark, and Hawkeye.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to trespass,” you say and walk out. “Just wanted to stretch my legs.”

Stark waves his hand. “You’re fine and if you want some _boring_ company you’re in the right place. Drink?”

“Oh, please,” you say, eyeing the bottle of amber beauty he picks up. He gestures at a chair and you sit, trying not to think about how nice he is.

“Should you be drinking?” Bruce asks with a critical eye on your cup and looking like he’s going over your treatment plan in his head.

You look at him. “Doc, I’ve been stuck on the road, in cars and small living spaces, with Captain No Fun, Lady Rasputin, and Goose. And they have all been stuck with me, The Righteously Cranky One. Can I catch a break?”

Bruce rolls his eyes and holds up his hands. Tony, about to bring your cup over, stops, adds more, and then brings it to you. “Thanks,” you say with a grateful nod and take a small sip. It doesn’t burn as much as you expect it to, but there’s some bite to go along with the smoothness and you savor it. Little luxuries have been hard to come by, especially lately.

“As a favor to you, I am never telling Nat you called her that,” Hawkeye says, but he’s grinning in a way that makes you think he doesn’t really mean it.

“Why not? Hard to kill, Russian. Hard to kill is a compliment to you assassin-types, right?” you ask, playing up some innocence. He laughs.

“Do you give everybody nicknames?” Bruce asks.

“Yeah. Why? Do nicknames piss you off?”

“Not generally,” he says with a little shrug.

“Then too bad, Green Bean; you are not exempt.”

He looks a little shocked for a moment, then smiles. “I suppose that’s fair.”

Tony joins in, sitting on the couch with Hawkeye but taking up the cushion that’s closer to you. You hold up your glass. “This is good stuff. Domo arigatou, Mr. Roboto.”

“Aren't the robot jokes better used on your boyfriend?” he asks.

“Don’t have a boyfriend.” He was there, he should know better, but you take a sip to bury those words that are a little too bitter to swallow on their own right now. “However, if we’re talking about Bucky, well, he can probably cosplay a decent Terminator, but you have a whole suit going on, C3PO.”

Tony gasps dramatically and holds out his hand. “How dare you. You don’t deserve that drink; give it back.”

That is, perhaps, the _most_ C3PO thing he could do, but you like the booze and you really want to keep it. “Fine. Bender?”

He thinks for a moment and then drops his hand. “I’ll take it.”

“How’re you feeling?” Hawkeye asks. Then he gives you a little wave and says, “By the way– hi, Clint Barton, nice to meet you. We didn’t really get to properly introduce ourselves yet.”

You give him a little wave back and tell him your name. “Yeah, that was probably the worst introduction ever.”

“Don’t worry; I've had worse,” Clint says and winks.

“I’m totally okay if that’s the worst one I have. More than fine, totally cool.”

“It was pretty bad, but I find it hard to believe your first meeting with Barnes when he was still the Snow Queen was much better,” Tony says. Oh honey.

“It was…fairly benign, actually,” you say. “He was a sad hobo-lookin’ dude and I invited him in for dinner.”

“Is that why you call him ‘Trash Panda’?” Bruce asks and Clint chokes.

“Partly. It’s also–” You have a better idea. “Actually, I’m going to withhold that story until I can tell it to as many of his friends as possible. Not that it’s particularly interesting or funny, I just think he’ll be embarrassed.” You frown at a potential wrinkle. “However Steve ‘Can’t Take A Joke At His Or His BFF’s Expense’ Rogers might shed a very patriotic tear, and ain't that a mood killer.”

“I don’t know about that. Steve seems pretty annoyed with him too,” Clint says.

“Yeah, well, there is plenty to be annoyed with.” You take a swig and barely taste it. You sigh. “Stupid Trash Panda.”

That does dampen the mood a little bit and you all sit in silence. Until Tony clears his throat. “Speaking of Jack Frosty and awkward introductions.” Tony swirls his glass and flashes you a devious, charming smile. “Has anyone told you the story of how he first showed up here?”


	15. “An Awkward Introduction” or “My Name is Not Inigo Montoya”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony Stark is a genius. Sure, a possibly-still-brainwashed-Hydra-assassin sneaking into his lab at he’d-rather-not-put-a-number-on-it o’clock isn’t part of his normal purview, but Natasha is like ‘Winter Soldier Lite’ so he’s had some practice. And, in general, Tony is nothing if not good at rolling with the punches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special Chapter Warnings: Flashback chapter, no Reader character presence, attempted suicide by way of other person
> 
> A/N: Penultimate chapter! Hopefully this can tide us all over for a while; my notes for the last chapter are a giant mess. But. This chapter. I think this takes place a couple of days before chapter four, wherein Steve comes home from his run and Bucky is just…there. Not much else to say; it sort of explains itself. Please enjoy.

 

 

Tony Stark is a genius. It’s time the whole world knew.

Okay, so maybe the world does know already, but it never hurts to send out a reminder every now and then. Putting out new tech is sort of like a press release, or an email ‘just touching base’, or sending a postcard, only more useful and way, way more demonstrative of the only good thing he has going for him.

No, no, Pepper will give him The Eye if he starts thinking like that, and somehow she will _know_. So Tony focuses on his finished prototype and only goes a little cross-eyed as he downs the rest of his coffee cup. Better not leave anything for Bruce to test, because Pepper may give him The Eye but Bruce will give him _The Eyes_ , which is a nearly-lethal combination of Steve’s ‘why do you make America sad’ eyes and Pepper’s ‘we are going to have a stern talk’ eyes.

But now is not the time to think of punishment. Now, Tony has earned a _nap_. The nap of all naps. He checks his clock just to see if he should be taking a nap or actually going to bed and, not for the first time, curses his decision to have a clock that shows the date because gone is his plausible deniability and if Pepper finds out he is in _so much_ trouble. Luckily for him, the tower is almost completely cleared out with everyone else on missions or business trips or what have you, so Pepper is not there to notice and neither is anybody else. Luckily. ‘Luckily.’

Tony gets up to go make another pot of coffee and considers what he’s going to work on next. If he passes out down here he won't notice the quiet so much, what with the music and the machines and the welding and whatnot. Actually, best not to use something that requires the welding torch; he’s lucky his hair grew back from that one–

Tony jumps when he sees a shadow shaped like a man. Unfortunately for him it isn’t just shaped like– it _is_ a man. Someone is in his lab, without him having granted access, while he is essentially Kevin McCallister for the weekend. Tony freezes, calculating the time he has to get his suit, when the man steps out of the shadows, showing his very familiar face, and now– now Tony doesn’t know what the hell to do.

“Your BFF’s out,” he says without thinking. “Would you like to leave a message?”

James Buchanan ‘what the hell kind of nickname is Bucky’ Barnes stands there and stares at him like James (Bucky?) is somehow not an apparition. Or, if he is, he’s an unreasonably cranky one given that he’s in _Tony’s_ house without permission. So rude. He even gives Tony a stink eye and, seriously, what is with all these people communicating through looks when they have a perfectly fine language available to them?

“Wow,” Tony says. “Steve never mentioned how good you are at looming. Do you compete? Seriously, that is some professional work.”

Bucky moves quicker than Tony can even compute in real time, but Tony manages to choke down a shout for Jarvis when Bucky, having thrown a battered manila folder onto the empty lab table nearby, is suddenly kneeling in front of Tony, his head bowed, and a gun…

Bucky has placed a gun in Tony’s hand and is aiming the barrel at the crown of _Bucky’s_ head. Tony’s jaw drops and, for one of the few times in his life, he finds himself utterly speechless. Bucky takes his hands away and rests them on his thighs. Tony should move his hand too, Jesus, this is so far from firearm safety that–

“Mission report: December 16th, 1991.”

Something in Tony grows dark and cold and his hand squeezes the grip _tight_.

“Targets were–”

“Stop, _STOP_!” Tony shouts and throws the gun to the side as hard as he can. It crashes into something and clatters to the ground, but it doesn’t go off. Thank you, safety.

But once the blood is done rushing through his head and his ears are no longer filled with a static panic, Tony looks at Bucky, who is now staring up at him with his eyebrows raised and, yeah, it probably wasn’t the _smartest_ idea to toss a weapon away while stuck in a room with a –possibly _the_ – master assassin.

Eccentric genius. Eccentric geniuses are allowed to make those kinds of mistakes, right?

Bucky’s throat pulses with a visible swallow and for a brief moment Tony sees the scared, sad human he’s trying to hide. Fuck, but Tony needs a drink. Especially when Bucky says, “I killed–”

“Yeah, yeah; I know,” Tony grumbles and goes for the bottle he keeps in his workbench. Bucky is quiet as Tony pours a glass and when Tony looks back, Bucky is still kneeling but also looking freely bewildered. Well, as bewildered as a barely expressive kill machine can be. “I’ve read through a hell of a lot of SHIELD and Hydra files, especially the stuff during the time when the two were pretty well entwined,” Tony says and turns to face him again. “I’m not an idiot.”

Bucky is unimpressed. “You’re alone with me and you threw a weapon away.”

Tony waves. “Details. Besides, that isn’t my weapon of choice.” He lifts his hand, and the compact suit glove comes out of the watch to cover his hand.

Bucky stares for a moment and then he gives an approving nod. The glove goes back in. “I figured you might appreciate that,” he says, looking at Bucky’s gleaming (tantalizing) prosthetic.

Bucky’s jaw tightens and yeah, okay, complicated feelings are understandable. Tony holds up the bottle in apology. “Want some?”

Bucky shakes his head but he doesn’t look quite as constipated with homicidal intent, so Tony comes back with glass in hand. And bottle in the other. “You can sit on a stool if you want. There’s plenty to go around.”

Bucky stays on the floor. Tony shrugs and sits on a stool, like a human. Maybe that’s the problem, he realizes with a wince. But the Bucky he sees here is so different from the one he has seen in the few videos and photos that Rogers is constantly mooning over. Sure, Bucky’s got the resting death face, but, unlike the Winter Soldier, he twitches and moves and his eyes have a sense of life in them. A sad life, but, well…

“What’s in the folder?” Tony asks warily and downs half his drink. Bucky, slowly, stands and grabs the folder. He opens it and holds it towards Tony, who holds out a hand and turns his face to the side. “Nope! Nice try but I was burned by ‘Two Girls’ once upon a time and I refuse to be handed anything by anyone other than Pepper ever again. Rhodey is _still_ laughing about it.”

Bucky huffs petulantly, which actually goes a long way towards making Tony feel better. Jarvis pops up on his watch, checking in, and Tony puts in the code to let him know everything is kosher. Tony has got to figure out how Bucky bypassed Jarvis, but later. Right now Bucky is pulling out handwritten pages, (no pictures, thank god), one after another, and is spreading them over the table. “I’ve been going after– after Hydra,” he says, his voice dropping to a near mumble. He clears his throat and swallows, focusing on the papers. “I don’t have time to get all of them, so I wrote down all the bases I can remember, all the people I know. You’ll be able to use this to find more, I think.”

Tony is, in fact, a genius, so he doesn’t miss the inherent meaning. “Why don’t you have any time?” Tony asks, mostly rhetorically, and saunters over to glance at the documents. Yeesh; the scribbles are crazy, but the handwriting is beautiful. Bucky doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even move. Tony looks over him. He seems pretty okay– not terribly filthy, he’s been eating, but still. He’s cowering. “You waited.” Tony turns to face him. “You were watching us, waiting for everyone to be gone. You didn’t want Steve to interfere.”

Bucky lowers his head again. “I didn’t want him to stop you, if you wanted to kill me. I can’t…” Bucky shudders and breathes heavily. Or maybe that second part is Tony. It most certainly is when Bucky looks up and his eyes are shining, bright and wet in the light. “I can’t take back the fact that I almost killed Steve. I can’t reverse the bullets I put into the Widow. I can’t change the fact that I killed your parents. There’s only one thing I can do.”

It’s Tony’s turn to swallow. He’s had a while to deal with this. Thankfully. He doesn’t know what he’d do if he hadn’t had time to process, to learn more about what Bucky has been subjected to. “You know that wasn’t you.”

“When I dream about it, it’s my hands.”

Tony rolls his eyes and throws up his arms. A little bit of his drink splashes out, but not on anything important. “ _Jesus_ , how am I supposed to be mad at you when you say shit like that?”

Bucky is quiet again. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice nearly a whisper. He looks up, like Tony is his only chance at salvation. “What do you need me to do?”

‘To pull the trigger’ goes unspoken and Tony really, really hates that. “Why do you assume _I_ would kill you? Wouldn’t Natasha be a safer bet if you really wanted someone to off you? You _shot_ her!”

“She’s practical. An assassin. She’s too close to Steve and would view it as no personal slight; simply a consequence of a mission,” Bucky says. “Your wound is more personal.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Tony mutters, pours another drink, and knocks it back. Ah, that feels better. “But what do you want?”

“I deserve punishment,” Bucky murmurs.

“You’ve been punished for, what, seventy years now? In fact, that’s the whole problem.” Tony swirls the drink and studies the other man for a moment. He wishes Bucky would just take a seat already; he’s getting a crick in his neck. “You want…forgiveness? Absolution? I can’t give you that. Hell, even if we could raise all the people you killed– and trust me, we can’t, Pepper already put the kibosh on reenacting Frankenstein even though I know Bruce-y and me can do _so_ much better– even the people Hydra sent you after couldn’t give you that.” Tony picks up a few of the papers, waves them, and crouches down to set them on the floor right in front of Bucky. He stays and looks right into very _human_ eyes. “But maybe you can find a way to live with yourself even without it.”

Bucky stares.

Tony stares. “I know what it’s like to have blood on your hands,” he says lowly, and stands, not taking his eyes from Bucky’s. “Mine was indirect, but I know what I’ve done because of what I made, and I don’t have your excuse. There’s no way to make it up. But you were a victim too, and the ones that really need to pay, are the Hydra bastards that thought they could put a chokehold on the world with death and pain.” Tony sniffs and leans back against the table he was using. “I’m not them. I’m not going to be like them. No matter what.”

For a while, they just stay like that, Bucky…doing whatever Bucky does, and Tony trying to figure out the right joke to lighten the mood because it’s a little much and it’s really killing the nice buzz he had going on from his creative bender and what was supposed to be a celebratory drink. He doesn’t find a joke, but he does find some humor in the situation. “Also, Hydra’s favorite “weapon” turning on them instead?” Tony grins and something in Bucky’s face lightens. “I’m a big fan of irony. And comeuppance. Oh boy, I love me some comeuppance.” Tony cracks his neck. “So, what do you think of keeping on…keeping on? Hurting Hydra is good for the environment. Captain America told me so.” He would have, if he had thought of it. Oh jeeze, Steve probably has never seen “Captain Planet.” Tony makes a mental note to correct that ASAP, and Bucky thinks it over.

“Hurting Hydra…” Bucky’s face turns, forming a smirk that makes Tony understand why Bucky was such a lady-killer back in the day. Even Tony’s panties almost drop. “I think I can manage that.”

Holy hell, he got the deathbot to smile. Steve is going to be _so proud of him_. After he gets over the whole ‘attempted suicide by mad genius.’ In a fit of exuberance, Tony goes searching for another glass and pours it nearly full. “Here, it’ll put hair on your chest,” he says and pushes it into Bucky’s hand.

“No thanks. Hair gets caught in zippers,” Bucky says but takes it anyways.

Tony chokes and takes a moment or two to clear his lungs. “Was that a _joke_? Do you have a sense of humor?!”

Bucky smirks into his cup as he drinks. Tony is ready to celebrate when he suddenly thinks of something. “Hey, just a– just a thing,” Tony says and snaps his fingers a few times while he gathers his thoughts. “So, whatever you decide to do– whether you go Rambo or wait for the team is one thing, but for the love of god can you at least wait for Rogers so he can make kissy faces at you in person? He’s driving us _insane_ with the sad gazes. Do you know the force of Steve Rogers’ Puppy Eyes?”

Bucky snorts, but he loses the smile and squints. “A team? I’m not…” Bucky looks down. “You think they’d accept me here?”

“Buckarooney, if you could make Steve stop looking the Mournful Virgin Mary I think we’d all vote him off the island if it meant keeping you.”

“Hm,” Bucky says and tosses back the rest of the drink. “I’ll think about it. And I’ll…be here. When Steve comes back.” He looks around the room until his eyes land on Tony’s newest project. “What is _that_?”

Tony beams, sets his drink down, and starts explaining his newest baby to a man who not only seems to keep up with Tony’s mile-a-minute excitement, but also looks like he understands a little bit of it. Tony feels a weight lifting in his chest– the uncertainty of coming face-to-face with his parents’ killer, the idea that Steve might be so desperate for a man who isn’t even really a man anymore, the thought that Bucky wouldn’t be willing or able to fit in, it’s all gone. It’s not perfect, he knows it won't be easy, but it’s a damn good start, and that’s what Tony needs. He thinks it’s what they all need.

And in a few days, Steve is going to come home, and because of one billionaire, genius, philanthropist, happily-not-single man, Bucky is going to be here, and that billionaire, genius, philanthropist, happily-not-single man cannot _wait_ to see the look on Steve’s face.

Yep. Tony is a genius.


	16. “The End” or “Absolute Beginners”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end is just the beginning. Or something like that. You fold into the Avengers’ domestic life better than you would have thought and you and Bucky finally, finally, finally have it out. And then some.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Oh my goodness. The end. I figured this chapter wouldn’t be posted until Thursday but I found enough notes on it that I realized I’ve had it half-written since practically the beginning. It is long but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless. There is sass, and family, and finally some quality Bucky/Reader time that they both try to ruin at every turn. I am all about a good sappy romance and I did my best, but by now we all know how receptive these two assholes are to that.
> 
> I know I’m not super personable or communicative like other authors, so I just want to say thanks so much to you lovely people who have stuck it out with me, giving kudos and comments; I love you and I have read every comment probably at least three times. I’m really glad that you guys have liked this thing. Seriously, <3.
> 
> And now, for the ending.

 

 

The next few weeks are full of excitement and activity.

For everyone except you.

To be fair, everyone in Stark Tower (or Avengers’ Tower, whatever it’s called these days) is busy taking out Hydra left and right and that is something you feel a bit more personally invested in these days. (Thanks, Dick.) But, not being an Avenger, or even legally alive, leaves you with a lot of time to twiddle your thumbs. However, to be even more fair, when Jarvis said ‘they all want to visit you’, he hadn’t been referring to only the people you got dragged in with.

Pepper Potts is the first person to really come around, which is both surprising and not. She seems nice but she’s busy as all hell so her visit is very much her sniffing out the new person. You’re all right with it since you’re essentially crashing in her house without means to pay her back (which she waves off with a stern “don’t even worry about that” and you have never accepted someone’s hospitality so quickly in your life; the woman is formidable). She’s also offered to help you figure out a way to ‘come back’, so to speak, once this mess is mostly done with. In your opinion it’s beyond nice, but again, you’re not going to argue it.

Clint visits on and off and he’s mostly just fun to chill with. He is a font of terrible and wonderful ideas, often both at the same time. He is expressly forbidden to hang out while Darcy is around. (At least, without a responsible adult supervising.) (You don’t count after you encouraged one of his ideas by suggesting fireworks as a worthy addition.)

Tony is a mix of Clint and Pepper– he mostly visits to be a giant nerd, think out loud about terribly wonderful ideas, trade friendly insults, and bitch about Steve. But he’s also busy as all get out between doing his own work and doing Avengers’ stuff. He’s sort of the insomniac’s special, popping in at the weirdest times you happen to be awake.

At first when Natasha comes to visit, you’re both not quite sure what to do now that you’re not trying to ply information out of each other. It’s a little awkward but you watch TV together and she jokes about the crap you’ve tuned into. Her jokes are really, _really_ dorky for such a stoic assassin and you get comfortable enough to comment on it. She chuckles like it amuses her but gives you a weird look. The next day she comes in, a little frosty, and plops into the chair next to you with such violence that you abandon the plan for bad TV and ask Jarvis to start playing the entirety of “Xena: Warrior Princess”. When she relaxes a little, you attempt to make peace. “You know, you’re pretty much a cooler version of Xena–”

“Stop sucking up.”

“Yes ma’am.” You sit ramrod straight and steal little glances over at Natasha, wondering if you should get permission to breathe.

She makes you squirm for at least three episodes, and then she side-eyes you with a full-on smirk. “Was that dorky?” she asks, twirling her hair around her finger.

You scowl at her. “You jerk.” You barely stop yourself from throwing popcorn at her. “You don’t get to be Xena anymore; you’re Gabrielle.”

“No, I’m Xena,” she says so authoritatively you don’t disagree with her. She turns her head and looks at you. “Who would you be?”

You take a moment to think about it, then admit, “Probably Joxer.”

Natasha pats your hand and looks back at the TV. “No. You can be Gabrielle.”

You think it’s one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to you.

Sam brings you gifts, including that of his presence. The gift cards are nice, allowing you to buy books for the tablet and games for your phone, but he also tells you stories about Steve acting like an idiot which is the greatest gift of all. Sam may have terrible taste in people he’s willing to commit treason for, but he’s one of the best people you’ve ever met and from now on you plan on telling Steve every chance you get just how much he doesn’t deserve him for a best friend.

Bruce is quiet, calm, and exceedingly kind, which is normally the kind of person you scare off, but this is a man who hangs out with Tony on the reg and somehow can co-exist with Tony and Clint in the same place, so you figure he can hold his own. However you never really knew just how much the man’s inner demon is exaggerated. To you, he’s a saint who comes in to visit on the rare times when you’re feeling _too_ socialized. He sits in a comfy chair in the corner and drinks tea and you both read (or, well, he reads and you nap, if you’re being honest with yourself) until you’ve recharged. You don’t know how to tell him he’s appreciated without maybe being a little acerbic about it, so you stay quiet. Thankfully, he just seems to know.

That said, you don’t mind getting a little excitement now and then, and Darcy, Jane, and Thor are maybe your favorite visitors since they’re basically like a party every time. Thor is wonderful, Jane is surprisingly sarcastic, and Darcy is hilarious. Darcy and Jane rib each other like only almost-sisters can, Thor has the best stories, and you and Darcy tease Jane when she gets all doe-eyed over Thor, which is fun because Jane gets flustered and Thor gets so sweetly happy over it that you and Darcy immediately have to start making fun of both of them so you don’t choke on the sap. Thor and Jane are never bothered by it though, and often go on staring at each other like they’re each others’ night and day. It’s nice to see but it causes a little sting in your chest that you immediately cover up with more insults, which Thor sometimes lobs back. He’s a nice guy and gets your humor, but he’s also way slyer than he seems.

For all the rotating distractions you get, you have quite a bit of downtime too, and there are two noticeable exceptions to your visiting roster: one Steve Rogers, and one James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes. One of those is fine. The other is…not. You think. Though sometimes it sort of is because you’re almost certain you’re dreading the upcoming ‘talk’ as much as he is.

The whole question of what you two are, or could be, is making your skin itch a little. A week or so into your figurative couch-crashing, Bruce mentions that you should ask Pepper for a room. It makes you freeze up, but thankfully he’s distracted by something on a clipboard and walks out without another word about it. You pretend like it didn’t happen and it doesn’t get brought up again. The idea of asking for your own room feels…presumptuous. You still don’t know where Bucky’s head is at. And logically, yes, you probably shouldn’t keep staying in a (very nice) hospital room, but Bruce has told you you’re not taking up space that someone else needs and you have a bed, a TV, and a window, so it’s fine for now.

Still, living in limbo sucks. You stick to your room to stay out of the way– the Avengers are coming and going in shifts and when they come back it’s so they can crash at home. Jane and Darcy work. Bruce works. Pepper _really_ works. Eventually, more and more people come back and stick around. The general morale goes up then. People linger, don’t look as tired, and you hear that the worst of it is over and everyone is heading home now. Everyone. And yet Bucky doesn’t so much as come around for a ‘hey how are ya’. _Steve_ comes to say hi. Bucky does not.

Today, you’re trying not to focus on that, because you have visitors, two of which are spies (Natasha and a woman named Maria Hill, who is awesome and terrifying), and the other three (Pepper, Darcy, and Jane) are your standard-issue interrogators. However they are all very benevolent, because they don’t ask about Bucky at all, aside from an almost-slip by Jane at the very beginning. Not even Maria, who you don’t know very well but who sits with the awareness of an apex predator. Not that Natasha is any less, but you know by now she won't eat you, so you kowtow to Maria in a very cautious manner. You think she approves.

However the feeling of being prey and appeasing a predator abates when Bucky actually shows his goddamn face. The friendly card game is forgotten for the moment and the tone of the room changes on the whole. You wonder if he flinches because he can actually see your hackles rising, or if there’s something else.

You don’t really care, because brave, brave Sir Bucky, bravely runs away. You roll your shoulders to let out some of the tension that had built up in the few seconds the cyborg you love to hate actually made an appearance. Jane is wide-eyed and Darcy lets out a low whistle. “If looks could _kill_ ,” she says and raises the bet.

“I haven’t seen him in almost three weeks,” you say as evenly as you can.

“What?” Darcy sounds shocked. “But he’s been–” Jane digs her elbow into Darcy’s side. “Ow! Very busy! Very busy, and gone, definitely not here, is what I was _going to say_ ,” she says and glares at Jane, who snorts derisively and tosses in an extra chip.

“It’s okay. I know he’s been around.” You fold and sit back. “Let the fucker squirm.”

Pepper, Darcy, and Jane exchange glances. Natasha quirks a smile and folds as well. Maria’s looking at you with a slowly growing smile that turns razor-sharp. “Oh, I think you’ll get along here just fine,” she says, matches the bet, and lays out a full house to Darcy’s audible dismay.

It’s too much to think of, but you’ll take it for now.

 

The next day is a little harder to deal with. Sam swings by in the early afternoon and excitedly tells you that just about everyone is finally home. That’s good. And there’s a family dinner tonight. That’s…good?

“Oh,” you say, unsure of what that means. Is it a private affair? Is he inviting you? The idea of your first _real_ interaction with Bucky happening in front of all of his friends is…daunting. On the other hand, the idea of sitting by yourself while everyone else has a good time makes you feel lonely. Which is stupid, you’re just a tagalong, why do you think–

“Trust me, it’ll be great,” he says and stands up. “I’ll see you there!”

Well. That answers that. And solves absolutely nothing. As lonely as the idea of sitting around made you feel before, now being expected to show up is definitely, definitely daunting. It’s a family dinner. You’re not family. You haven’t had family in…quite some time. It takes a special kind of person to want to put up with you, and as much as they seem okay with that, you can’t help the intruding, niggling doubt that you’re just ‘that poor girl who got beat up by Hydra and well she helped Bucky out that one time, might as well invite her around just because.’

Ugh.

You’re debating just hiding in your room or actually trying to go out so they can have their dinner without wondering about the weird shut-in, when someone knocks. Pepper enters alone, shutting the door behind her. “Jarvis mentioned you didn’t look like you were coming to dinner,” she says, without judgment.

You turn to look at the ceiling, _full_ of judgment. “Jarvis. I thought we were _friends_.”

“You called me ‘Johnny 5’.”

“Johnny 5 is fucking adorable!”

Pepper politely clears her throat. Rats. You sigh and turn to face the music. “Why weren’t you coming?”

“I just…” You look around and then settle on her face again. “I don’t know, what you know, but Bucky and I are…well, I have no idea. And I don’t wanna crash your dinner if I’m not even gonna be here for long, you know?”

Pepper nods and you think that’s it, you’re off the hook. It’s equal parts relief and disappointment. Until Pepper goes to sit in the chair, crosses her legs, folds her hands in her lap, and are you in trouble? You take an uneasy seat on the edge of the bed. “Bucky is a good man,” she says. “He’s a good man who is disproportionately terrified of anything that can make him happy.”

“That being said– I don’t know how Bucky feels any more than you do, but I do know he ran into a possible ambush against orders, let a Hydra operative strip him of his weapons, and listened to words that, while they no longer trigger him to lose himself, do still trigger awful night terrors. Whether or not he’s ready for a romantic relationship, he _cares_ about you.” She makes eye contact with you. “And I know that you took in a potentially dangerous man, fed him, gave him a place to stay, and when you found out he actually was a dangerous man, who wanted to do good, to heal…you gave him a safe place to rebuild himself and let him stay until you knew he needed to go, for his own good. Whether or not you want a romantic relationship, you care. And he knows that. I’m fairly certain that, with that in common, you’ll be able to work it out.”

You’re fairly certain that working it out is the problem. Still. “That…” you start slowly, “…is the nicest ‘get your ass to the table before I drag you by your ear’ anyone has ever given me.”

Pepper smiles serenely and leans forward to pat your hands. “I spend a lot of my time placating rich white businessmen.”

You hold your heart. “ _Ouch_ ; did Natasha teach you to hide that dagger?”

“She might have mentioned your aversion to anything resembling emotion. Besides, not coming is a moot point. I don’t know if you know this, but Tony has all but legally adopted you and there is no hope in the world of you running away from him now.” Pepper stands and extends her arm to you.

“Wow. That is terrifying!” you say cheerfully but take her offer, and Pepper laughs for the first time you’ve seen.

So you enter, arm-in-arm, to a nice dining area with a large table full of, by now, friendly, familiar faces. Darcy, who is sweet but who has only known you for under a month, immediately locks onto _you_ , not Pepper, and waves. “Finally! Where’ve you been? I was just about to come get you!”

“I like to show up fashionably late with one of the top five most attractive people in the room.” You scout the table as Pepper goes to take her seat next to Tony at the head. Jane and Thor are on the end opposite them, and there are five seats running on each side. Going down from Tony there’s Bruce, Clint, Natasha, an empty seat, and then Darcy next to Jane. On Pepper’s side there’s Maria, Sam, Steve, Bucky…and an empty seat, before it hits Thor.

So your options are sitting next to Bucky, or sitting across from Bucky.

You walk (don’t run, don’t run, don’t run, you tell yourself) and take the seat between Darcy and Natasha because, seriously, it’s going to be awkward enough staring across the table at him, but even the idea of bumping elbows with him brings out the Victorian noblewoman in you and makes you want to fall over. However, apparently you're damned if you do and damned if you don’t, because there is very little talking as food platters are passed around, like everyone is waiting for feelings to explode all over the table.

You roll your eyes and accidentally land on Steve. You freeze for a moment and he raises an eyebrow. You scowl at him and he smiles. “Hey Hermit,” he says.

Oh, he’s not going to get you that easily. “Hey Goldie,” you say and take a serving dish from Darcy.

Darcy snorts. “Goldie?”

“Overgrown golden retriever.”

“Because he’s…like a happy dog?” Jane guesses.

“Blonde and plays with a Frisbee all day,” you say and consciously hold back from scooping too much onto your plate.

…Eh, fuck it; you’re starving and it’s not like there isn’t plenty to go around. Also, from the way Steve, Thor, and Bucky are loading up, you won't get a chance at seconds. Even Pepper is taking on enough food to nourish two of her.

“I’m not the only one who’s blonde,” Steve says like the grumpy puppy he is.

“Clint is awesome. Thor is charming and a gentleman. You are…” You wave in his general direction. “ _You_.”

“What does _that_ mean?”

You take a bite of food and, once you’ve chewed and swallowed, you smile sweetly at him. But you don’t elaborate. Much to his obvious consternation.

“Can I pay you to follow Steve around and make fun of him?” Tony says.

You click your tongue. “That’s bad business, Stark; why pay someone to do something they’re willing to do for free?”

“It’s also bad business to turn down easy money.”

“Touché.” You consider it, because Tony is just this side of crazy that he might actually do it. “Mmm….gonna have to pass. That would involve constantly being around Steve, and that’s just not healthy.”

“Very true,” Tony says. “Side effects include ranting about the kids these days.”

“Appearance of a red, white, and blue rash.”

“Patriotic speeches on a whim.”

“Uncontrolled sudden renditions of “My Shot.’”

“That’s more of a Darcy thing when she’s gotten deep into vodka.”

“To be fair, though, she’s so good at it drunk you’d never be able to tell she wasn’t sober,” Clint says.

“Aw, Clint,” Darcy says and makes a heart with her hands.

This gets the rest of the table into a debate about a) the best Hamilton song and b) who does what better. You half-listen– apparently “It’s Quiet Uptown” is banned for being able to make Thor _and_ the Hulk get weepy, and you’re sort of curious as to how they found _that_ out, but now’s the perfect time to examine Bucky. He’s ducked down, avoiding the conversation in favor of his very, very fascinating food. He straight up refuses to look at you, which pisses you off. Then, when he does look at you, he just looks at you like everything is normal, and why are you staring at him like that?

That _really_ pisses you off, and apparently it shows, because he goes right back to his food and Steve frowns at you.

“Wow,” Tony says. “That’s a hell of a glare. I never thought I’d see the Winter Soldier _cower_.”

“He knows what he did.” You sit up and start scooping up another bite. “Or he will. When we discuss it. In depth. After dinner.”

“I’ll bring popcorn,” Tony says.

“Tony, I really like you. I feel like we’re kindred spirits,” you say, mindful that it’s his house you’re staying in. “But there are no words in any language enthusiastic enough to express how much you are _not_ invited.”

Steve looks at Bucky. “Kindred spirits. With _Tony_.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and shakes his head, but goes back to his food a little easier. Jane clears her throat. “Why– why are you mad at Bucky?”

Bucky cringes. You can’t lie– it’s definitely satisfying. “ _Why_ am I mad?” You lean back and consider how much you feel like dragging him in front of his friends. “I don’t know. It could be that, after living with me for six months, he ups and leaves and doesn’t contact me again– no ‘how’s it going’ letter, no ‘hey I’m alive’ postcard, no nothing. It could be that he _knew_ some Nazi-ass bastards knew that he had lived in my home and he didn’t give me a heads-up. It could be that he sent _that_ –” You point at Steve, “–to show up at my door, and seconds after his arrival my home had more bullet shells than the end of “Scarface”. It could be that I then had to go on the run with _that_ –” Steve looks annoyed by the pointing. Excellent. “–While not knowing what the fuck was going on. It could be that one of those Nazi-ass bastards kicked the shit out of me. It could be that Bucky pretended the trigger words worked and I thought he was gonna shoot me. It could be that he didn’t bother to come see me in the three weeks I’ve been here. I dunno though– why would I _possibly_ be mad?”

The room is utterly silent, aside from Natasha calmly eating next to you. Bucky is frozen, staring down, and he slowly, slowly looks at you. He looks so scared that your smile is gentler than you mean it to be. “I’m actually not,” you say. “Mad, that is.” Not about all of it, anyways. You’re a lot of things but some of what Bucky’s done is understandable, and that’s still a conversation for later. For now, just fucking with him is enough.

Jane lets out such a sigh of relief you’re surprised she doesn’t faint, but that does make you laugh. Bucky actually loosens up and drags his head out from between his shoulders to shake it in dismay. “You’re just as irritating as you’ve ever been,” he says with a small smile of his own.

“I know.” You stab some noodles onto your fork and eat them even with a gigantic smile on your face. “Ain't it great?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “It is.”

Steve, being Steve, mutters, “Speak for yourself.”

“Aw, don’t be so sour, Encino Man.”

“What does that nickname pertain to?” Thor asks. Up until now he’s just gone along with whatever inane pop culture nonsense you’ve spouted. Maybe he’s emboldened by Jane having asked for clarification earlier.

“It’s a movie. Basically a caveman is unfrozen from a block of ice and wreaks havoc in the modern era.” You smile right at said caveman. “Colon, the Steve Rogers Story.”

His eyeroll is enough to make Pepper almost choke on a laugh, which he silences with a wounded look of All American Betrayal. Gag. Darcy and Clint and Tony at least laugh unabashedly and Steve frowns at you. “One day you’re going to run out of nicknames.”

“Nah, I’ll just start recycling the good ones,” you say. “I really did like ‘Purple Muscles Majesty’. But I admit I have a special place in my heart for ‘Captain Kidnapper’. Really suits you.”

This time, Sam laughs, and is immune to the eyes of ‘Your Country Is Disappointed In You.’ Ballsy, especially when he keeps on in the face of them to say to you, “Still want me to write that foreword?”

“Hell yes.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “How are you going to get around your grand theft auto?”

“Are you kidding me? That’s gonna be a featured chapter. ‘The Day I Saved Captain America’s Star-Spangled Ass.’”

“That is _highly_ embellished,” Steve says.

“Pretty sure Natasha and I rolled up on you and Sam and got you two the hell out of dodge,” you say. “I mean, sure, Sam had his wings, but you had…a shield. So what would you have done without the car?”

“She has a point,” Natasha says. Luckily Steve’s patriotic sad eyes have no effect on the Russian assassin.

“Story time!” Darcy sing-songs.

“Well,” you say before Steve can get a word in edgewise. “This is how it went–”

“No, you’re biased,” he says stubbornly. “Have Sam or Natasha tell it.”

Natasha shakes her head and Sam leans back, his hands clasped behind his head. “Nah, man,” he says, an easy grin on his face. “Just think of it like we’re pre-editing the book. What were you calling it again? ‘Kidnapped by Captain America’?”

Steve bites down on a groan and Clint, for some reason, finds that so hilarious he doubles over.

“Steve, you didn’t,” Pepper admonishes lightly.

“Hydra shot up every inch of her home and was _still_ on the attack!” Steve says. “I didn’t have time to be nice!”

“I know. It was just, ‘you’re coming with us’, not even ‘come with me if you want to live,’” you say. “Talk about missed opportunities.”

“Seriously Rogers, you have no style,” Tony says.

“Sorry I didn’t have time to think of a movie quip,” Steve says with a deeply sarcastic drawl.

“Not forgiven,” you say just because you can.

“Children,” Pepper says, trying to hide her smile. She’s failing. “Do I have to separate you two?”

You’re not sure how she can, considering you and Steve are on opposite sides of a giant table. Thor laughs. “Fear not; this is how they express their affection.”

“I could do with less of that,” Steve says.

“Aw, really? I was gonna wrap my hands around your throat; really solidify our status as friends.”

“No thanks, that sounds too intimate,” he says. “I don’t want Bucky to think I’m creeping on his girl.”

Bucky drops his fork to his plate with a loud ‘clang!’ You…you are…speechless.

Steve is _smug goddammit_.

Tony points up. “Jarvis, that’s one point to Steve.”

Steve joins you in your shock. Bucky hides his face like he wants new friends.

“What’s the score?” fucking _Bruce_ asks.

Jarvis replies, “Two to one,” but when he says it’s in _your_ favor you erupt.

“Hah!” you shout and point at an affronted Steve Rogers.

“You don’t even know what they’re scoring!”

“Don’t care; I’m winning and you’re losing!”

Steve huffs and crosses his arms. “Your friendship with Tony probably gives you an unfair advantage.”

Which is stupid, because Steve is way better friends with Tony than you are; they trust each other with their lives and you’re an intruder who makes some dumb references that he gets. But the way that comes out is, “Nope. Suck it!”

Bruce chokes. “Did…did you just tell a national icon to _suck it_?”

“Man, I almost broke my hand punching a national icon in the face,” you say and shake out said hand in memory. “Not good times.”

All eyes turn to you. Thankfully Natasha and Sam say, in unison, “He deserved it.”

Steve winces and admits, “I deserved it.”

Bucky’s eyes are sharp on him and as much as Steve does deserve the haranguing, he doesn’t deserve it from Bucky. As the rest of the table starts razzing Steve about what he possibly did to deserve being punched, Bucky notices you staring. He frowns.

“What did he do?” Darcy asks as Tony comes up with some elaborate soap opera involving a love triangle you immediately tune out of (ew, ew, _ew_ ).

“He didn’t know anything about me, and acted like a dick. But it wasn’t all his fault” you say, still looking at Bucky. Darcy’s attention is dragged elsewhere so you murmur, too low for her to hear, “He thought I didn’t really mean anything to you, since you never mentioned me. Once I got over being upset…I sort of agreed.”

Bucky flinches and you glance away when Clint adds on to Tony’s story and makes the whole table laugh. Almost the whole table– Steve is smiling behind his hands in a very ‘this is my polite face’ way and Bucky is _gone_. You glance around and Steve jerks his head towards a door on his side of the room. You slip away, seemingly unnoticed, and duck out.

Only to run right into Bucky. “Oof! Trash Panda, what are you–”

He turns around, grabs you around the waist, and kisses you. Not in a nice, tender way like he’s trying to savor it, but in a rough, breathless way, like he thinks he’ll never get another chance so he’s going to take it for that all he can.

You wrap your arms behind and up to grip his shoulders, holding him flush against you while you return the kiss, trying to slow him down mostly by just weathering the storm and letting him know you’re here, you’re not going anywhere.

It works. He doesn’t loosen his grip but he does slow up, even to the point where he stops and, even with your lips still touching, you both just breathe.

Then he moves back in and cups your face with his hand while his prosthetic arm curls behind your back and keeps you tight against him as he kisses you like he _does_ want to savor this. Like this means something to him. Something special. His eternal five-o’clock shadow doesn’t burn as bad and his fingers are gently massaging your scalp. You’re not sure if your heart slows or speeds up– it feels like it does both– but it doesn’t matter. Bucky’s lips are soft, his mouth is gentle, and you don’t want to be anywhere else.

“Huh,” you hear Steve say mildly. “So _that’s_ how you get her to shut up.”

You groan as you and Bucky separate and he curses in Russian as you lean your head against his chest. “Thanks a _lot_ Captain Cock-block,” you grit out through your teeth. Bucky huffs a laugh and strokes your hair once before he pulls away and looks at Steve like he’s about to knock his block off. It’s super sexy. You wonder if you can get him to do it by telling him that.

Steve holds his hands up. “Everybody noticed you were gone. I’m pretty sure Tony is recording this.”

Bucky damn well _growls_. “Stark!”

You hear a yelp from the other room. Then Jarvis pops in. “Sir would like you to know he has stopped recording, and requests that you please don’t kill him.”

“Tell him it’s under consideration,” you say darkly and Bucky grunts his approval.

The noise in the other room picks up again and Steve shakes his head, smiling, but he looks at Bucky. You look at Bucky. That’s a mistake. His lips are still a little wet and his hair is all mussed up. This isn’t what you had in mind by _talking_ but if you had a choice of activities you know what you’d place at the top of the list.

“I’ll– we’ll–” Bucky starts walking backwards and clears his throat. “My room. We’ll talk. I swear.”

He turns and goes. You stand there, stunned, and then move to go after him. Steve suddenly grabs your shoulder. “Hey,” he says, sincerely, so you wait. “Here.” He puts something into your hand and when you look at it, it’s a…a…

It’s a fucking Captain America _condom_. It’s got the goddamn shield logo on the foil wrapper and it breaks your brain for several seconds. Once you reboot you look back up and Steve is grinning like the little shit he is. “It’s not a six-hour safety lecture, but I’m sure you can figure it out.”

You gape like a fish until your vocal cords come back online. You’re tempted to crush it. But _fuck_ if you don’t respect him a little. Just. A little. “You…you… _you_. Fuck; I don’t know whether to hug you or murder you in your sleep.”

He lifts one shoulder in a little shrug. “Knowing you, probably both.”

“Not a bad idea. A murder hug. Like a benevolent boa constrictor.” You pocket the condom, because why not.

Steve grins brightly. “Have fun!” he says.

“Go fuck yourself!” you reply, sugar sweet. But he salutes you and goes back to the dining room and you take a deep breath and square yourself to go find Bucky. In his room.

Er…

“Jarvis? Where’s Bucky’s room?”

 

You arrive on another floor and all the good, relaxing vibes from the impromptu make-out have fled in the wake of actually having to be a goddamn adult about this. What if he was just stressed? What if he didn’t mean it like you did? What if, what if, what if…

Bucky, when you enter his room, looks almost as terrified as you feel. You wonder if it makes you a terrible person that you find that reassuring. Eh, who cares. Bucky looks like he’s going to open his mouth but you want to start, so you beat him to it.

“It’s okay.”

Bucky’s mouth flops, then shuts. “Wh…at?” he asks, frowning.

You move closer to him and squeeze his hands, trying to look as earnest as you can. “I understand,” you say softly. “I know what I said at dinner, but I understand why you did what you did.”

He doesn’t look at ease. Quite the opposite, actually. “You do?”

You nod. “I get it. I get that you didn’t say anything about Hydra knowing about me because you thought it would scare me. I get that you didn’t talk to me because you didn’t want them suspicious of me anymore than they were. I understand why you sent Steve and Sam and Natasha instead of coming yourself; you thought I would be safe. I understand why you played along with Dick– you needed to get at him and he was threatening me. I understand, Bucky, and I’m so sorry I’ve been so hard on you.”

Bucky is practically sweating. He looks almost physically pained when he says, “Why– why aren’t you mad at me? This is _worse_. This is…is…this…” He squints at you, suspiciously.

You last all of three seconds before you burst out laughing.

He swears up and down in about three languages while you thoroughly, _thoroughly_ enjoy yourself. You’re still chuckling, wiping away a tear, as he scowls at you. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” you say, grinning so big it hurts, and you move to pull away.

Bucky catches you and pulls you back in, but closer. Like, kissing closer. “No,” he says lowly. “I don’t.”

“Yeah, I’m starting to get that,” you say and tap his chest. “And while I don’t either, I still need you to stand down, Trash Panda, because I _do_ have some shit to say about how you decided to handle this situation.”

Bucky lets you go, but sighs happily and remains close. “Lay it on me, doll.”

Unintended consequence of fucking with him to begin with means anything is now better than what he just went through. Still, it’ll be good to get it off your chest and it was absolutely worth the look on his face. You clear your throat. “Point the first– you left and never sent a word back and you _know_ how much I hate watching the news but it was the only way I had to know you were still alive. All that shit you went through with Steve, _I_ went through with you, because you couldn’t figure out how to encrypt a goddamn email?”

“I’m sor–”

You put a finger to his lips. “Zip it. I’m venting. You’ll get your turn after. Got it?” When he nods, you take your hand and pull up another finger. “Thing two–” and this one really pisses you off, “–Semi-related: you knew Hydra kept a loose eye on me and _didn’t_ tell me. Because you thought it would freak me out, I assume, but I’m a grown fucking woman and I am _allowed_ to be freaked out when some Nazi terrorist assholes are keeping _watch_ on me! I’m probably more freaked out now that I didn’t know than I would have been if I had been able to move or something.”

Bucky is quiet while you collect yourself. “Numero tres: …I _can_ understand why you sent Steve,” you grumble. “And I am grateful he saved my life. But sending him without any warning of what he could expect to find was straight-up shitty and he deserves an apology too. Even if you didn’t want to go into ‘so I crashed with this chick for a few months,’ you could have at least said, ‘useless civvy doesn’t know shit’ and we would have fought, like fifteen percent less, probably. And I might not have hurt my hand on his face.”

Bucky looks pensive and opens his mouth, but at a look, he shuts it. “Quatorze–”

“That’s fourteen.”

“Shush!” You cross your arms. “Okay, so I also see why you played that Hydra asshole in the basement, but I’m still mad about it. I thought you were _gone_ because of _me_. Couldn’t you have somehow pinned it on Steve or something?”

He lifts one side of his lips into a smirk. “Thought you didn’t have a heart?”

“You have _no idea_ how many times over the past month alone I’ve wished I didn’t,” you say and sigh. You suddenly think of one more thing and hit his (not metal) shoulder. “Oh, and all of that to say nothing of the _suicide run_ that Tony told me about!”

Bucky mutters something about Stark being a snitch as he rubs his arm. Then, quietly but still audibly, he says, “He deserved some chance at getting peace.”

You could just hit him. But you don’t. “Killing someone doesn’t bring peace.” Well. “Normally.”

“Yeah. I’m getting that.” His hand on your arm traces down one of the scars left behind, and his gaze goes stormy. “I shoulda torn him apart.”

You clear your throat. “That’s…a sweet sentiment, but the imaginary visual is sort of horrifying.”

He nods, like he’s not really listening. “Are you…done?”

“Yeah.” You steel yourself for the rebuttals. Bucky takes a moment. Or two. Or three.

“I’m not gonna argue a lot of those points, ‘cause you’re right. I messed up.”

Well. Will wonders never cease.

He rubs the back of his head. “I _thought_ I was doing the right thing. If I didn’t contact you then you wouldn’t get dragged into my shitshow of a life. If I just never saw you again, never showed interest, then eventually Hydra would have cut their losses and left you alone. You could have gone on with your life.”

Even though that’s what you had been doing in between Bucky stealing away in the middle of the night and Steve knocking on your door in the middle of the day, you’re struck by the realization that that really could have been it. That Bucky could have really been out of your life so completely, with no loose string to keep him there.

No. No; you would have gotten sick of that bullshit eventually and scrounged up enough money to come to New York and you would have been that crazy idiot trying to track down the Avengers. Much to Trash Panda’s ultimate annoyance.

“I’m sorry I got you caught up in this.”

“I’m not.” You’re even more unrepentant when he gives you a sour look. You cross your arms. “I’m _not_. Look, I’m not going to say it was _all_ worth it because I could’ve done without the torture and the kidnapping, but I’m glad I ended up back in your life in a way that didn’t end up with me trying to throw rocks at your window. And I’m glad that _now_ I know for sure that you…care…like I care. I’ve spent the past few weeks wondering when you were going to kick me to the curb, so the confirmation that you won't is nice.”

Bucky stares at you like he’s worried stupidity is contagious. First of all: how dare he. Second of all: how _dare_ he. “I sent Steve to protect you, I went after you myself, and you still didn’t…you still thought I didn’t _care_?”

“Oh, that is so not how it works! And, okay, I get that you’re not expressive and into touchy feely bullshit; I mean, we both know _I’m_ not.” You wave your hands over the mess that is you. “But you’re basically a superhero now. Saving people is sort of, completely, totally what you do.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose and when he’s done counting to ten or whatever, he’s staring at you with utter frustration. “I didn’t want anyone else to know how I– it would have been dangerous, more dangerous for you, and I didn’t know _you_ cared like that either. Not really. You…you wanted me to go.”

Idiot. “I didn’t _want_ you to go. I wanted you to do what you needed to do. But _I_ wanted…you,” you say, finally stammering out the long and short, the crux of the issue, the heart of it. “I wanted you to be okay but I also wanted you to stay. At the time, those were mutually exclusive.”

He shakes his head. “What was that about being a ‘grown ass adult’ and being able to make your own choices? Why didn’t you tell me you wanted me to stay?”

“Because it didn’t matter. I didn’t even know _why_ I wanted you to stay. God only knows what I see in a Cheeto thief like you.” You make eye contact and force yourself not to shy away. “You were miserable, and don’t try to tell me you weren’t. I’m not stupid.”

“I wasn’t miserable,” he says, just because he’s a jackass like that. But some of what you said appears to sink in. “But you had a point. I was…spinning my wheels.” He grips your arms like he expects you to pull away. Like you haven’t said worse to yourself. “Not by being with you, but by being still. I could do something good. I needed to do something good. I needed to be me– whatever that meant. I had to figure it out for myself.”

He breathes. You’re close enough to feel every exhale. “I thought…” He licks his lips, and you’re close enough to _hear_ that. You look down, trying to find a neutral point to fixate on, but your eyes land on his throat. Predictably, that does _not_ help. “I thought I couldn’t live without Steve,” he says, voice lowering to a quiet rumble. “I just didn’t know that I didn’t want to live without you too.”

You choke on air. ( _Air_ , you will swear to your grave.) “Bucky…”

He’s quiet for a moment, just breathing. And then: “Is that all it takes to make you say my name?”

You laugh and wipe away a tear, because fuck it. “You are such an asshole.”

“Good. We’ve got a lot in common then,” he chuckles and moves in for another kiss. This one is languid and slow from the start, and you are all set to enjoy it when something slips out of your pocket. You’re sure you know what it is, so you’re sure you want to ignore it, but Bucky glances down and then just– stares at the star-spangled condom.

Captain Cock-Block: ruining your life even when he’s not around. Bucky stares at it on the ground, stares at it when he bends to pick it up, and stares at it as he stands and holds it in his hand. It figures that after a hundred years of life punching him in the face, _this_ is what breaks him.

“Yeah,” you say in a sigh. “Remember how we were gonna have a talk about your terrible taste in best friends?”

Bucky is quiet. Very quiet. And broody. Very broody.

“Natasha.”

You blink. “Huh?”

“Natasha is my best friend.”

You can’t help but snort. “You think she isn’t sitting with Steve and laughing about this? Fuck; I bet she got it for him.”

He scowls, because he knows you’re right. “Cl–…Sa–…” You practically see the names scrolling through his head, until he finally looks satisfied. “Pepper.”

You nod your approval. “Nice lady and terrifyingly competent. Good choice.”

Bucky opens his mouth to say something but he notices the condom again and bites down on a smile even as he hides the packet in his fist. He leans his forehead on your shoulder and you’re not sure why he bothers. You can feel him shaking with suppressed laughter. “I’m gonna kill ‘im.”

“Oh hell no.” You pat his back. “I’ve got dibs.”

Bucky stands up and is less than impressed with you. It’s good to know you’re still pretty decent at parsing out the variations of his resting bitch face. “I’ve had ‘dibs’ since the 30’s. Nice try.”

You probably shouldn’t say what pops into your head. Probably.

So of course that’s exactly what you do. “Then I’m transferring those dibs since you, obviously, suck at it.”

Bucky freezes and you hold your breath, waiting to see which way he goes. Thankfully he chuckles, he _laughs_ , and then he’s gripping onto you and digging his head into your shoulder as he keeps laughing. It’s harsh and uneven, like he’s either fighting against it or doesn’t remember how to laugh like this. Still, it’s a good sound. One of the best you’ve ever heard.

“Steve would hate that joke,” Bucky says as he stands tall again, _smiling_.

“Oh, good to know.” You wrap your arms up behind him and lock your fingers to hang onto the back of his neck. “Tell me all your best friend’s weaknesses. Not the normal fight-y ones; those are boring and useless. I wanna know how to make him squirm.”

He puts his hands on your hips. “Stick around and you’ll find ‘em out, I’m sure.” He looks at you, hopeful, and it takes you a moment to realize that this is your invitation.

“Yeah? Well…as long as you’re here, I might as well stick around,” you say, trying not to smile _too_ much.

Bucky starts to say something, but he gets halfway into a yawn instead when he suddenly snaps his mouth shut and looks so _bewildered_. You don’t mean to laugh as hard as you do but he looks like one of those puppies that just discovered farting and Does Not Want any part of it. If you go too deep into examining it, it’ll probably be because of something awful, like Hydra conditioned him not to yawn, or maybe he just never needed to because he ‘slept’ so much. Either way is equally fucked up, and you can only poke that bear so much.

“Am I boring you, old man?” you ask.

“Nah, just–” He glances at his bed and looks away real quick. “I haven’t been sleeping so good.”

Right. No-Fun McKilljoy strikes even unexpectedly. You hold Bucky’s face with one hand and run your thumb under his eye. “I guess you do look tired. It’s hard to tell with a raccoon like you.”

He leans into your touch as you take it away, but you don’t falter because you have a plan. You grab his hand and tug him over to the bed, only stopping right next to it to ask one very important question: “Have you ever killed anyone in your sleep?”

He has to think it over. Because of course he does. “Not for a very long time,” he decides.

“Good enough.” You finagle him onto the bed. With his help, of course, because there’s only so much you can push around a man who is not only built like a tank but also, basically, carries part of one around on his body as an appendage.

“There,” you say once you’re both laid out, your head on his flesh shoulder and an arm and leg draped across him. “Just think of me as a big teddy bear. I’m the reason you have the night terrors, so maybe I can help you with them.”

“Who told you about that?”

“Sorry, sworn to secrecy.” Well, not explicitly. But. “I break girl code for no man.”

He grumbles under his breath. “Maria.”

“Huh?”

“Maria’s my best friend now, not Pepper.”

You roll your eyes. “Shut up and go to sleep.”

“Kinda hard when you’re so clingy,” he says even as he wraps his arm around you and brings you closer.

“Yeah, well, you have a history of skipping out on me in the middle of the night.” His chest is warm under your head and your fingers rest lightly on cool metal. His breathing soothes you into shutting your eyes.

“You don’t have to worry about that.” He presses a kiss to your head, and it’s still new enough to make your stomach do a little flip. “I’ve got my friends and I’ve got my girl. I’m home.”

It’s sweet.

It’s so sweet.

It’s. So. Sweet.

Your stomach really starts flipping. “Uuuuugggghhhhhh…”

He shakes with laughter. “Don’t throw up on me.”

“You get what you deserve you disgusting bastard.” But you’re relaxed and feeling pretty nice, so you swallow the bile.

He nuzzles you. “Sincerity.”

“Ugh; I know. I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

“No,” you sigh as you drift off. “I really, really don’t.”

 

The next morning you knock on Captain America’s door. And immediately move away so Bucky can drop the water balloon condom _right_ on his head.

Sam, who’s there waiting to go on their morning run, laughs so hard he pulls something in his side. While the condom doesn’t do that cool fishbowl thing, the water does mostly get all over Steve, which is all you really care about. The Paragon of American Virtue curses you with the most delightfully acerbic language. Once he’s done he gives you a truly evil glare, which is ruined by his truly pathetic wet dog look.

You smile sweetly. “It’s not a bunch of bullet holes, but I’m willing to call it even.”

He rolls his eyes. “Fine,” he grumbles. Then, being the bastard he is, he shakes his head and splashes you and Bucky. You curse and he laughs and retreats back into his room to change. Later at breakfast he is less than amused to find that Tony has a recording of the event and is planning to play it every morning from now on, “to start the day off right.”

You’re not the most optimistic sort but you have to admit– as Natasha elbows you to show you the hits counter for the YouTube upload and Bucky rests his head on your shoulder to look– that if you had to burn your life to the ground, then what you’re building from the ashes isn’t so bad after all.


End file.
